STANDARD LITERATURE SERIES 
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The Sketch Book 

PART TWO-ESSAYS 




IRVING 




Publishing 
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Class I?J_2AAi_ 
Book , A -3 JJI^ 
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STANDARD LITERATURE SERIES 



THE SKETCH-BOOK 



PAET TWO: ESSAYS 



BY 

WASHINGTON lEVING 



EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 

BT 

EDWARD EVERETT HALE, Jr., Ph.D. 

PBOrBSSOB OF EireLISH, TJlflOlf COLLE&B 



UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING COMPANY 

NEW YORK •:• BOSTON •:• NEW ORLEANS 










f^^f,^ 



The text of these selections is that of " The Author's Revised 
Edition" of 1848. 

The Publishers. 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

NOV 17 1905 

_ Cowrieht Entry , 
fUrir. /(,.f90i' 
CLASS OL xXc No. 

/ 3/ 3/X 
COPY B. 



COPTKIGHT, 1897 AND 190.5, BY 

UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING COMPANY 



«S38S8 



PREFATORY NOTE 

The object of this volume is to give characteristic examples of 
the essays of the 8ketch-Book. The Introduction, therefore, deals 
particularly with the essay as a literary form and with Irving's 
essays especially. The main facts of Irving's life are so familiar 
that no attempt has been made to give a complete biographical 
sketch. It has seemed enough to present the main lines of his career 
in a more cursory manner. 

Edward E. Hale, Jr. 
Union College. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

PREFATORY NOTE iii 

INTRODUCTION v 

The Life of Ievinq v 

Irving as a Representative of American Literature . vi 

The Essay as a Literary Form viii 

Suggestions for Study xii 

ESSAYS FROM THE SKETCH-BOOK 

The Voyage 1 

Westminster Abbey 9 

Christmas 26 

The Stage Coach 33 

Christmas Day 53 

The Christmas Dinner 68 

Strat ford-on- A von 88 



INTRODUCTION 

THE LIFE OF IRVING 

Irving observes of the lives of literary men that they aflford few 
striking themes for the sculptor (p. 12) ; we may say much the same 
thing of his own life from the standpoint of the biographer. It was 
in the main successful, happy and honorable, both to himself, to his 
friends and to the country. In his earlier days he made some study 
of the law (1797), his friends offered him opportunities in the public 
service (1813), necessity led him to a commercial life (1815). But 
it was not as a lawyer or a diplomatist or a man of business that 
he was to distinguish himself. He first turned to literature as an 
amusement, but it became an absorbing occupation. He and his 
friends planned and carried out Salmagundi (IHOT); he wrote Knick- 
erbocker's New York (1809) as. humorous satires for the society of 
which he was an accepted part. But later, when he produced the 
Sketch-Book (1820), and the long series of tales, essays, histories and 
narratives that followed it, he wrote as a professional man of letters, 
and in no long time as the most distinguished man of letters of his 
country. Long before his death Irving was the representative Amer- 
ican author. The appearance of each one of his works was a literary 
occasion. Everybody was proud of him and felt that in him America 
presented herself worthily to the literary world. 

Yet this distinguished and representative American lived long 
abroad. For seventeen of the most important years of his life (181-6- 
1832), the years in which he was making his literary reputation, 
Irving lived in England and Spain. This we can readily understand. 
Irving was a lover of old-time romance: the cordial old English cus- 
toms and the color of old Spanish adventure appealed to him 
strongly. So when he once began to give the world his sketches of 
English life and manners, and his tales and histories of romantic 
Spain, he found enough to busy him for many years. Yet even when 
abroad he did not forget America. He was in England when he 
wrote the " Legend of Sleepy Hollow " and " Rip Van Winkle." Of 



VI INTRODUCTION 

him, indeed, we may truthfully say what he said of Shakespeare: 
" The singular gift of the poet to be able thus to spread the magic 
of his mind over the very face of nature, to give to things and places 
a charm and character not their own, and to turn this ' working day 
world' into a perfect fairyland" (p. 102). Tarrytown and the Cats- 
kills are now places of romance by the power of Irving's pen, 
though in themselves no more romantic than Schenectady or the 
Adirondacks. 

On his return he was an author of established reputation. Now 
he turned his mind more directly to American subjects. Here be- 
long his Tour of the Prairies (1835), his history of the fur traders of 
Astoria (1836), his Life of Captain Bonneville (1837). Here belong the 
studies that ended in his great life of Washington (1855-1859). His 
home at Irvington, as the town was named in his honor, was a note- 
worthy place in America, and he was the most noteworthy man in 
his own walk of life. Here he lived happily till his death (1859), 
with brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces (for he himself never 
married), a life of literary accomplishment, broken only by some 
years abroad (1842-1846), in which he returned to Spain not merely 
as a famous man of letters, but as the accredited representative of 
his country in public affairs. 



IRVING AS A REPRESENTATIVE OF AMERICAN LITERA- 
TURE 

Washington Irving was the first American to attain an inter- 
national reputation in literature. There had been American authors 
before his day who had been well known in Europe as well as 
America. One of these was Jonathan Edwards, the famous theo- 
logian; one Benjamin Franklin, the famous diplomat and scientist. 
But these great men, and others, had been best known for other 
things than literature. Jonathan Edwards was known for his theol- 
ogy and his metaphysics; Franklin chiefly for his scientific dis- 
coveries and his political services. Of the latter it was said that he 
had snatched the lightning from the skies and the sceptre from 
tyrants, a saying which refers to his discoveries in electricity and 
his services in the Revolution. Franklin was undoubtedly known 
from his literature also. In France he was called " Le Bonhomme 
Richard," from Poor Richard's Almanac. But in spite of such things, 
American literature was not thought of abroad until Irving. We 



INTRODUCTION Vll 

may ask how it should have been. Before 1800 there were in 
America hardly any cities of any size, hardly any publishing houses, 
not many newspapers even. There had been literary activity, it is 
true, but it had not been such as to interest the world. With Irving 
this was changed. Whatever notice was given to American litera- 
ture in general, he was certainly a noteworthy figure almost at once. 
Sir Walter Scott had seen great powers of humor and sensibility in 
Knickerhocker's New York. Murray took the Sketch-Book when its first 
publisher failed and welcomed the author to his drawing-room, " a 
great resort of literary characters." Frazier's Magazine included a 
picture of him in its Gallery of Literary Characters. He received 
a gold medal from the Royal Society, the degree of D.C.L. from 
Oxford. All in all, he was recognized as a man of letters of reputa- 
tion. In his success America felt itself becoming a part of the great 
Republic of Letters. 

Irving did not represent America in just the manner that might 
have been expected. America was in his day a new country, and 
Europe, at that time and later, rather expected from it new and orig- 
inal literary forms and ideas. They expected that American authors 
would be distinctively American in some way. For this reason Walt 
Whitman afterward was favorably received in England: there was 
something fresh and powerful in the rugged and unfettered form of 
his poetry. For this reason, too, among others, was Bret Harte de- 
lightful to Europe: he presented novel and romantic scenes of life 
which accorded with the European idea of America. But Irving 
made his success in well-established lines. His first work was in 
Salmagundi, a periodical written by him and a few literary friends, 
very closely after the model of Addison's Spectator of a hundred 
years before. That work had had a very great influence upon lit- 
erature, and had had great numbers . of followers. Of these Sal- 
magundi was one of the last. In the Spectator, it will be remembered, 
we have a club which is supposed to get together a series of little 
essays upon the town, the country and life in general. So in Salma- 
gundi. Instead of the Spectator, Sir Roger de Coverley, and Will 
Honeycomb, we have Lancelot Langstaffe, Anthony Evergreen, and 
William Wizard. Instead of the club meeting on Tuesdays and 
Thursdays, we have the meetings of the junto about the Elbow Chair 
with the London Particular at hand. Instead of the Spectator's 
visit to Sir Roger we have the humors of Cockloft Hall. In Salma- 
gundi Irving and his friends, young men of brilliancy and wit, showed 
their cleverness, as was most natural, in well-accepted forms. In 



VIU INTRODUCTION 

like manner Irving's second work, his first decided success, was in 
well-established lines. When Sir Walter Scott wrote to the author 
of Knickerbocker's New York, he said: "I have never read anything 
so closely resembling the style of Dean Swift. ... I think, too, 
there are passages which indicate that the author possesses powers 
of a different kind, and has some touches which remind me much 
of Sterne." Swift was the greatest satirist of the century then 
just past, and Sterne the greatest sentimentalist. In satire and 
sentiment, then, Irving in his New York reminded people of forerun- 
ners in English literature. 

In the Sketch- Book, too, Irving expressed himself in forms long 
familiar. The tales, of which there are a number, are, as a rule, not 
very different from the many tales which had appeared and were 
appearing in the English press. The essays were not in kind very 
different from the essays which at that day filled the English 
periodicals. We must not think this in any way remarkable; it 
was not very logical to suppose that America, because she offered 
the world an experiment in politics, was going to experiment in 
everything else. In literature especially a new country rarely of- 
fers experiments. Old countries often experiment in literature, be- 
cause they are tired of the old forms, but new countries incline at 
first to stick to literary traditions. America has furnished the world 
a number of innovators, but, as a rule, her great men of letters have 
found the existing literary forms sufficient for their purposes. Ir- 
ving and Emerson, Longfellow and Poe, Hawthorne and Cooper, found 
that the ordinary forms of the essay, the novel, the poem, enabled 
them to say what they wished to say. If they were often inspired 
by American life, they did not find it necessary to invent specifically 
American forms. Irving took the tale and the essay much as he 
found them in literature and made himself an international reputa- 
tion, largely because he showed himself an easy master of the old 
forms and an equal of those already deemed excellent. We may, 
then, well use Irving's work as a means of studying the English 
essay. 

THE ESSAY AS A LITERARY FORM 

There are various kinds of essays to be found in English litera- 
ture. We will note some of the most representative. 

First, there are the essays of Bacon. These are short speculations 
on some general topic like Friendship, Studies, Death. Each essay is 



INTRODUCTION IX 

made up of short, concise, pithy sentences which might well stand 
alone. It gathers together the reflections of a scholarly mind on the 
subject in hand, passing from point to point with some connection of 
thought, but never aiming at a complete treatment. Such essays 
were not uncommon throughout the seventeenth century, although 
they did not always go by the name of Essays. One variety con- 
sisted of sketches of character: these' were sometimes more complete 
in treatment than Bacon's essays, which were commonly on moral 
topics; but the method was much the same. Another form connected 
together a number of shorter reflections on some general topic, as 
in Fuller's Holy and Profane State. But all were of much the same 
sort of thinking as Bacon's. The general tone of concise moralizing 
pervades the prose literature of the century. 

Next in order chronologically come the essays of Cowley. These 
essays differ from those of Bacon in that they have a personal touch. 
Thus Bacon writes of gardens, for example, and, indeed, gives you 
his opinions as to what is best in ordering and laying them out. 
But Cowley begins : " I never had any other desire so strong, and 
so like to covetousness, as that one which I have had always, that 
I might be master at last of a small house and large garden, with 
very moderate conveniences joined to them, and then dedicate the 
remainder of my life only to the culture of them, and study of 
nature." And this personal touch — the result perhaps of Cowley's 
being a poet as well as an essayist — gives a new quality to the essay. 
It is no longer concise and epigrammatic, at least of necessity, but is 
more apt to wander on as most of us do in our easy thoughts. It is 
no longer very short, for most men, when they write as they please, 
rather like to take their time. It is still an essay, however, for that 
word means the same thing as " assay " — namely, a trial or experi- 
ment. In Cowley's essays, as in Bacon's, the writer makes no effort 
to give a complete treatment of the subject, but makes a trial of 
what he has in his mind as though to see what it is, an experiment 
in dealing with such a matter. 

The essays of Addison in the Tatler and the Spectator are com- 
binations of the style of Bacon and that of Cowley. They are short 
like Bacon's, and they have a personal touch like Cowley's. But 
Addison gave an immense extension to the field of essay-writing: 
he chose his subjects from a very wide range. He would not only 
speculate on Friendship and other such abstract themes, or tell of 
his own thoughts and feelings. He wrote of anything that came 
up for the moment. He would discuss the psychology of Instinct or 



X INTRODUCTION 

the beauties of Paradise Lost. He would also write as readily about 
the street cries of London or the patches of court-plaster that the 
ladies wore on their faces. Some of his essays are almost stories, 
like some of those on Sir Roger de Ck)verley; others are descriptions 
of character; others are moral reflections. As has been said, his 
influence, or at least that of the Spectator, was very great. 

There have been during the nineteenth century various other 
forms of the essay, particularly that made famous by Lord Macau- 
lay, the general but careful treatment of some historical or literary 
subject. But when Irving began to write, the essay was a series of 
personal reflections. It might be long or short, it might be on some 
very general subject or on some special matter, it might even become 
almost a story; but it was always characterized by thoughts or 
ideas, rather than events or incidents: and it always retained the 
privilege of ease and lack of restraint and personality. 

An excellent example of Irving's essays is that on Westminster 
Abbey. Here Irving tells us of a visit made to the Abbey one 
autumn afternoon. But clearly the interest lies, not in the visit 
itself, but in the general reflections and ideas presented. In like 
manner, the essays on Christmas at Bracebridge Hall describe to us 
certain people and tell of certain doings, but the real interest is 
in the ideas gathered together about Christmas itself and the old 
English celebration of it, and the old-time customs and traditions 
belonging to it. So in the essay on Stratford-on-Avon, although the 
subject is an especial visit made by Irving to the birthplace of 
Shakespeare, yet that is but a means by which Irving puts together 
a number of ideas and reflections concerning the great dramatist 
and his plays. 

Sometimes Irving allowed the narrative character to predominate. 
Then we have not an essay but a story. Such is the case with the 
"Legend of Sleepy Hollow." Of this tale he wrote to his brother: 
" It is a random thing, suggested by recollections of scenes and 
stories about Tarrytown. The story is a mere whimsical band to 
connect the descriptions of scenery, customs, manners, etc." Read 
the story with this remark in mind and see what an exact character- 
ization it is. " The outline of the story," we are told by his nephew 
and biographer, " had been sketched more than a year before at 
Birmingham after a conversation with his brother-in-law. Van Wart, 
Avho had been dwelling upon some recollections of his early days at 
Tarrytown, and had touched upon a waggish fiction of one Brom 
Bones, a wild blade who professed to fear nothing and boasted of 



INTRODUCTION XI 

his having once met the devil on a return from a nocturnal frolic 
and run a race with him for a bowl of milk punch." In the tale, as 
we have it, this legend changes a little: Brom Bones tells how he 
himself raced with the Headless Hessian for a bowl of punch. And 
finally, in the ride of the unfortunate schoolmaster, the story takes 
an absurd and burlesque character. But as a story we can easily 
see how, as Irving says, it is little more than a means for descrip- 
tion of manners, scenery, character. This is not so much the case 
with " Rip Van Winkle." That tale, like the " Legend," is founded 
upon a slight suggestion — namely, the idea of a sleeper awakened 
after many years ; like the " Legend," also, it is full of descriptions 
of manners, scenery and character. But the story is held more 
firmly in mind, even though it is not ordered and condensed into the 
main thing. If the student will read " Rip Van Winkle " and the 
" Legend " on one hand, and the " Christmas Dinner " and " West- 
minster Abbey " on the other, he will see a gradual passage from 
the short story to the essay, and will be able to understand better 
just what the essay is. 

On the other hand, a few of Irving's essays have little or nothing 
of this narrative or personal element. " Country Life in England," 
" Little Britain," " Traits of Indian Character," " John Bull," may 
be mentioned as examples. Of these, however, it will be noticed 
that though they have not the touch of story or personal narrative 
that is easy to perceive in the others, they are on concrete topics 
rather than on abstract generalities. Bacon wrote generally on such 
subjects as Truth, Death, Love, Friendship. Cowley was more per- 
sonal, but he commonly took abstract subjects and wrote of Great- 
ness, Liberty, Solitude. Addison, as has been said, took a wider 
range; he was immensely interested in the actual world which passed 
daily before his mind. Still, besides his writings on the English life 
of his day in town and country, he also wrote with equal ease and 
pleasure, as it would seem, on the Effects of Avarice, on Friendship, 
on the Passion for Fame and Praise, on Labor and Exercise and 
other such matters. But Irving rarely deals with such abstract 
themes: however general may be his ideas he always attaches them 
to some particular thing. Indeed, it may be said that his subjects 
are rarely general. Addison might write on " Popular Supersti- 
tions," but Irving preferred the old English customs that he saw 
still carried out at an English Christmas celebration. Cowley would 
write on Greatness, but Irving preferred to write on Shakespeare 
and tell of a visit to Stratford. Bacon would write on Death, but 



XU INTRODUCTION 

Irving, if he had anything to say on such a theme, preferred to tell 
of it as it might be suggested by a visit to Westminster Abbey. In 
fact, Irving had a keen interest in real life. 

This interest is characteristic of him, and may even be called the 
foundation of his literary character. He wrote much; his histories 
and biographies are as noteworthy as his stories and essays. All 
have the same interest in people and their doings. He could write 
with equal ease of the early days of old New York, or, in different 
style, of the Alhambra, of George Washington or Oliver Goldsmith, 
of his own Tour on the Prairies or the Settlement of Astoria, of an 
English Christmas or the Birthplace of Shakespeare, for all these 
subjects when they once aroused his interest suffered him to pro- 
ceed easily with reflections and descriptions of the things that he 
had seen and knew of. Beyond this he rarely went. He saw every- 
thing as literature. He was content to give pictures of life at dif- 
ferent times with his own comments and reflections thereon. And 
as his character was in all respects kindly and lovable, his comments 
and reflections could not fail to reach the hearts of his readers. Thus 
it was that he could charm two worlds, for, as Thackeray said of 
him after his death, he was " the first ambassador whom the New 
World of Letters sent to the Old." 



SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY 

In the Introduction to Part I. of the Sketch-Booh were given a 
number of suggestions for the study of Irving's stories. Advice on 
methods of reading was given, originally formulated by Dr. W. H. 
Maxwell, and, in connection with the reading, methods of composi- 
tion were suggested whereby the work in writing Avas correlated 
with the study of literature. Further, some details of grammatical 
study were taken up and explained, and a few suggestions were 
given from a rhetorical standpoint. 

These suggestions were of a general nature, although the ex- 
amples and illustrations were drawn especially from the stories in 
the collection. They were such as might be applied to the study 
of any masterpiece, and will, therefore, serve in introducing the pupil 
to the essays from the Sketch-Book in the following pages. But as 
it is probable that these selections may fall into the hands of those 
who have already pursued such studies, or of such as are already 
fairly well practised in such matters, we shall now offer some fur- 



INTRODUCTION XIU 

ther suggestions of a different and somewhat more advanced char> 
acter. 

As the earlier studies are more particularly suited to Irving's 
stories, so these are more appropriate to his essays. They are espe- 
cially based, in the main, upon the preceding section in the present 
introduction, which gives a statement of the characteristics of the 
English essay and of Irving's essays in particular. It will be de- 
sirable for the student not merely to read and study that section, 
but also to appreciate it thoroughly by a comparative study of the 
essays themselves. To this end the following exercises are offered, 
in which the essays are studied from the standpoint suggested. The 
questions may be somewhat varied to suit special circumstances, but 
it is advised that their character be not changed. They are devised 
to bring up matters that the pupil may find out from the material 
at hand, and so to give a power of thought on the matters con- 
cerned. Vague, or less definite questions, which give no hint of the 
line of thought to be followed in answering, should be avoided. 
" Which of the essays in the Sketch-Booh interested you most ? " 
" Why do you like Irving's style ? " are questions which may stimu- 
late a clever pupil to think over the different essays in a suggestive 
way. But the average pupil will be unable to answer them to any 
real purpose. The questions that follow are meant to give a sort 
of discipline in thinking that will be useful in dealing with other 
works of literature, or, indeed, with things in general. 

I. What is the main idea of " The Voyage " f 

Such a question should be asked of each essay. The answer may 
be sought in the following manner: 

A. First make an analysis of the essay; that is, a tabular and 
coordinated statement in very short form of the ideas expressed. 
We cannot be sure that we know the main idea of the essay unless 
we know thoroughly what all its ideas are, what is its line of 
thought. An analysis is to be made as follows: 

a. First note the subject (generally in the form of a statement) 
of each paragraph. The following is such a statement of the sub- 
jects of the paragraphs of " The Voyage." The figures represent the 
paragraphs. 

1. The ocean voyage makes us ready for an appreciation of Europe. 

2. The voyage is not a transition, but a complete severance. 

3. So, at least, it seemed to the writer. 



XIV INTRODUCTION 

4. Though without customary interests the voyage has its own 
material for thought. 

5. The wonders of the ocean are to be seen or imagined, 

6. Ships are to be seen. 

7. The fragments of a wreck were especially suggestive. 

8. Tales of disaster were suggested by it. 

9. Especially to the captain. 

10. The captain's story was followed by a storm, fearful on deck; 

11. And no less in the cabin. 

12. But with a fine day such thoughts vanished. 

13. (Transition to paragraph 14.) 

14. Land is seen. 

15. The ship nears port. 

16. Everybody is full of excitement at greeting friends. 

17. Except the writer. 

ft. On looking over this rough abstract, we easily see that the ideas 
fall into certain groups. 

i. The ocean voyage a prejjaration for Europe. Paragraphs 1, 

2, 3. 
ii. It stands between the interests of home and those of Europe, 
having its own detached ideas. Paragraph 4. 

(1) Suggested by the general sights at sea. Paragraphs 5, 6. 

(2) Suggested by particular incidents, as the wreck (7), which 

suggested many stories of disaster (8), and especially 
one to the captain (9). 

(3) Suggested by incident of storm (10, 11) and calm (12). 

iii. Arrival in port drives away such ideas and suggests a wholly 
new series of interests. Paragraphs 13-17. 
B. When we glance through such an analysis as this, we can see 
that there is one idea more important than the others. We cannot 
say that Irving set to work deliberately to develop and present this 
idea; probably he did not. It is more likely that the idea of the 
separateness of the ocean, as we may say, the isolation from the 
land one leaves and that which one comes to, had impressed itself 
upon his mind, and that when he began to set down his ideas they 
took about the form of a statement with illustrations. The state- 
ment is to be found in (i.) above; the illustrations are in (ii.). But 
it is pretty clear that Irving had no idea of a definite treatment of 
an especial subject, for the last part of the essay (iii.) has very 
little connection with the idea, at least, of the earlier pait, and the 
last sentence brings in a wholly different feeling. Still we must 



INTRODUCTION XV 

realize that the essay has a definite subject. It is the presentation 
of an idea by illustrations that naturally lead to a bit of description. 

The idea — the main idea asked for in the question — is that stated 
in the first and last sentences of paragraph 1 : "To an American 
visiting Europe the long voyage he has to make is an excellent 
preparative. . . . From the moment you lose sight of the land 
you have left all is vacancy until you step on the opposite shore, 
and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another 
world." 

[As has been said, the pupil may carry out work like this with 
each of the essays in the volume. It is an excellent way of know- 
ing just what an essay is about, to make such an analysis and such 
a general statement. A word of warning may be given, however: 
it must be remembered that these essays are all informal and easy 
treatments of whatever subjects they may deal with. They will 
never give us perfectly definite and logical developments of thought. 
That was something Irving cared very little about; and if he had 
eared for such definiteness, it is not probable that he would have 
thought it suitable to such work as the Sketch-Book. The pupil must 
then be ready to find one idea after another, often without close 
connection, and often to find narration or description for its own 
sake. Still, it is always well to search out whatever connection there 
is, and to know the idea (if there be any) that the nan-ation or de- 
scription is meant to impress.] 

II. How is the main idea of " The Voyage " presented ? 

To answer the question rightly, the pupil must know — and the 
teacher may readily explain and illustrate the matter — that authors 
express their ideas in all sorts of different ways. The scientist will 
state his idea, perhaps, in the simplest, clearest and shortest form 
that occurs to him; the novelist may embody his idea in a story 
or a long novel. The poet will present his idea in all sorts of imag- 
inative or fanciful forms; the philosopher will state his with all 
sorts of divisions and subdivisions, qualifications and exceptions. 
What does Irving do? 

He does, it will be noted at once, make a fairly definite state- 
ment of an idea. The sentences in paragraphs 1 and 2 are general 
statements giving us an idea, and modifying it till the meaning is 
clearly before us. If it were merely a matter of conveying an idea 
that interested Irving, he might well enough have left the matter 
here. That he does not do so, shows us that the illustrations of 



XVI INTRODUCTION 

life at sea and the descriptions of landing were matters of quite as 
much importance to the writer as the thought alone which he pre- 
sented. Indeed, in some of the essays it often seems as if such 
illustrations and descriptions were more important than any idea. 
Just as Irving's stories are often merely means " to connect the 
descriptions of scenery, customs, manners, etc.," as he said himself, 
so are his essays often little more than such a combination. An 
idea suggests a line of thought which he carries on chiefly to have 
the chance of presenting the attractive pictures and reflections that 
occur to him. 

We may, therefore, say in answer to the question: The main idea 
is directly and clearly stated, but the greater part of the essay con- 
sists in the illustrations of the idea and the descriptions that grow 
naturally out of it. That is, Irving was not concerned to give us 
ideas only: he wanted to give us pictures, stories, descriptions, feel- 
ings, meditations. What does he say himself ? " What, after all, is 
the mite of wisdom that I could throw into the mass of knowledge f 
or, how am I sure that my sagest deductions may be safe guides for 
the opinions of others? But in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only 
evil is in my own disappointment. If, however, I can by any lucky 
chance, in these days of evil, i-ub out one wrinkle from the brow of 
care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow; if I can 
now and then penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, 
prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader 
more in good humor with his fellow-beings and himself, surely, 
surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain" (p. 82). 

[This question, like the preceding, may be asked for each one of 
the essays, and may be followed by asking the pupil to mention one 
of the pictures by which Irving illustrates his main idea, or one of 
the meditations, descriptions, etc.] 

III. What other kinds of Essays in English Literature? 

The main facts in answer to this question are stated in the 
preceding section of the introduction on " The Essay as a Literary 
Form," but a little further study is needed to get the ideas well 
in mind. The teacher should have Bacon's Essays at hand, and a 
set of the Spectator, or selections from it. Cowley's Discourses 
by Way of Essays may also be accessible, though they will not usually 
be found in school libraries. With Irving's essay on "Westminster 
Abbey " we may compare Bacon's essay " On Death," and Addison's 
account of the " Spectator " on Westminster Abbey, and of his visit to 



INTRODUCTION XVU 

the abbey with Sir Roger de Coverley. If possible, the teacher may 
read Cowley on " The Shortness of Life " and Goldsmith's account of 
Westminster Abbey in the Citizen of the World, and, to see how a 
contemporary handles such a matter, Stevenson's " Aes Triplex " 
in YirginlMs Puerisque. Here are a number of essays by different 
hands, suggested, as it would seem, by the same, or much the same, 
idea, yet they are very different things, as one can easily see. Ex- 
actly what the difference is may be hard to state or even to define 
for oneself. But a little study of pp. xi, xii of the Introduction, with 
a comparison of the essays themselves, will enable the pupil to give 
an intelligible answer to this question. This study may be carried 
on by such questions as these, founded on p. ix: 

Give some of the " short, concise, pithy sentences in Bacon's essay 
' On Death.' " What is meant by saying that they " might well 
stand alone " ? Has Irving any such sentences ? What kinds of re- 
marks does Irving generally make? Has Bacon any such? How 
does Bacon's essay " On Death " pass " from point to point with 
some connection of thought " ? What are the thoughts of that es- 
say? Has it any unity? What is its main thought? How is it 
presented — ^by statement only or with illustrations? 

Further reading of Bacon would show whether the facts discovered 
by such questions were general or merely accidental in the par- 
ticular essay studied. And having got in this way an understanding 
of the kind of essay that Bacon wrote, the pupil is ready to make 
a statement of what such an essay is and how it differs from the 
essays of Irving. 

IV. What is the value of Irving' s thoughts? 

This question may be answered by itself, the pupil considering 
carefully some of Irving's ideas and trying to appreciate their value. 
The previous questions have largely concerned form only; that is, 
they have considered the mode of expression and not so particularly 
that which was expressed. But it is always worth while in reading 
an essayist to free oneself from the question of style and to try to 
get the value of the thought itself, not only of the main ideas, but 
of the various minor ideas which occur by the way. Of these latter 
Irving has not a few, as for example: 

. . . "no moral, but the futility of that pride which hopes 
still to exact homage in its ashes and to live in an inscription," p. 11. 

. . . " for, indeed, there is something of companionship between 
the author and the reader," p. 12. 



XVIU INTRODUCTION 

" Why should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary ter- 
rors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love?" p. 15. 

"How idle a boast after all is the immortality of a name! " p. 21. 

Unless we are willing to let such ideas go in at one ear and out 
at the other, we ought to consider these sentences, to try to appre- 
ciate and get the value of their thought. We may either consider 
them alone or in connection with other thoughts on the same subject. 
Thus Bacon says: 

" Certainly, the contemplation of death as the wages of sin and 
passage to another world is holy and religious; but the fear of it as 
a tribute due unto nature is weak." 

Addison writes: 

" When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of 
envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every 
inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents 
upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the 
tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for 
those whom we must quickly follow; when I see kings lying by those 
who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, 
or the holy men who divided the world with their contests and dis- 
putes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competi- 
tions, factions and debates of mankind." 

And in the other essays mentioned, the teacher or pupil will find 
many such ideas which are at least worth turning over in the mind, 
that we may know what men of genius have thought on a subject 
that must some time come to the minds of all. 

The pupil may even take one of these sentences as the text for 
an essay of his own — or, in this special case, it would be better to 
choose subjects from some other essay. The following are suggested 
as topics for essays. Let the student consider the idea, first under- 
stand it thoroughly, and then explain it, or illustrate it, or confute 
it, as seems best. He may think that the idea needs only to be 
stated more fully, and to be understood, for one to agree with it, 
or disagree. Or he may think he should make it clearer by illustra- 
tion, or confute it by argument. At any rate, there will generally 
be found something to say, if the pupil have had some practice in 
essay writing. 

1. " There is something of companionship between the author and 
the reader," p. 12. 

2. " Those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal f al- 



INTRODUCTION XIX 

lacy, I am apt to think the world was more home-bred, social and 
joyous than at present," p. 27. Is there an "equal fallacy" here? 

3. " But in the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every 
charm and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for grati- 
fication to moral sources," p. 28. 

4. " The world has become more worldly," p. 30. Irving was 
thinking of the beginning of the nineteenth century, but the ques- 
tion is worth discussing at the beginning of the twentieth. 

5. There is " no condition more truly honorable and enviable than 
that of a country gentleman on his paternal estate," p. 41. 

6. " He who has sought renown about the world, and has reaped 
a full harvest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that there is no 
love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which 
springs up in his native place," p. 103. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK 

PAET II 
THE VOYAGE 

Ships, ships, I will descrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you. 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting, 

What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading. 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 
Halloo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go? 

Old Poem. 

To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage ^ he has 
to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence 
of worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind 
peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. The 
vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a 
blank page in existence. There is no gradual transition, by 
which, as in Europe, the features and population of one coun- 
try blend almost imperceptibly with those of another. From 
the moment you lose sight of the land you have left, all is 
vacancy until you step on the opposite shore, and are launched 
at once into the bustle and novelties of another world. 

* Irving wrote long before the fast on a sailing vessel and took more than a 
steamships had cut the time of the Atlantic month on the voyage, 
passage down to a few days. He crossed 
1 



2 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

In traveling by land there is a continuity of scene and a 
connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on 
the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separa- 
tion. We drag, it is true, " a lengthening chain," ^ at each 
remove of our pilgrimage; but the chain is unbroken: we 
can trace it back link by link; and we feel that the last still 
grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at 
once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the se- 
cure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubt- 
ful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but 
real, between us and our homes — a gulf subject to tempest 
and fear and uncertainty, rendering distance palpable, and 
return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the 
last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the 
horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world 
and its concerns, and had time for meditation before I opened 
another. That land, too, now vanishing from my view, 
which contained all most dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes 
might occur in it — what changes might take place in me, be- 
fore I should visit it again ! Who can tell, when he sets forth 
■to wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain cur- 
rents of existence; or when he may return; or whether it 
may ever be his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood ? ^ 

I said that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the ex- 
pression. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing 
himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for medita- 
tion; but then they are the wonders of the deep and of the 
air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly 
themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter-railing, or climb 

> The quotation is from Goldsmith's And drags at each remove a lengthening 

Traveller: chain." 

"Where'er I roam, whatever realms to Irving later in his life verote a delightful 

,r ?*^'^' . ^ n ^ * „ . * life of Goldsmith. 

My heart untravelled fondly turns to 

thee; "^ Irving did not return to America for 

Still to my brother turns with ceaseless seventeen years 

pain, 



THE VOYAGE 3 

to the main-top ^ of a calm day, and muse for hours to- 
gether on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea ; to gaze upon 
the piles of golden clouds just peering ahove the horizon, 
fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a crea- 
tion of my own; — to watch the gentle undulating billows, 
rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy 
shores.^ 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and 
awe with which I looked down froan my giddy height, on 
the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals 
of porpoises tumbling aibout the bow of the ship; the gram- 
pus ^ slowly heaving his huge form above the surface ; or 
the ravenous shark, darting, like a spectre through the blue 
waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I had 
heard or read of the watery world beneath me; of the finny 
herds tliat roam its fathomless valleys; of the shapeless mon- 
sters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth; and 
of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and 
sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the 
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How in- 
teresting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the 
great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument of 
human invention, which has in a manner triumphed over 
wind and wave, has brought the ends of the world into com- 
munion, has established an interchange of blessings, pour- 
ing into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the 
south, has diffused the light of knowledge and the charities 
of cultivated life, and has thus bound together those scat- 

' The main-top is the top of the main- of the form of essay in which Irving ex- 
mast proper. It is, as Irving says, at a celled. They are not so common to-day 
giddy height, although above it are the although they would be most useful in our 
topsail, the topgallantsail, the royal, and age of haste and worry. One should read 
the skysail before one reaches the main- George William Curtis's P?'ue and /, for a 
truck or very highest point. most delightful series of such thoughts. 

a Such musings are very characteristic s The grampus is a small species of whale. 



4 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

tered portions of the human race between which nature 
seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier.^ 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a 
distance. At sea everything that breaks the monotony of 
the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be 
the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked; 
for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some 
of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent 
their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by 
which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck 
had evidently drifted about ior many months; clusters of 
shelllisih had fastened about it, and long seaweeds flaunted 
at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? Their 
struggle has long been over — ^they have gone down amidst 
the roar of the tempest — their bones lie whitening among 
the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, 
have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their 
end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ! what 
prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home! How 
often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the 
daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of 
the deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety — 
anxiety into dread — and dread into despair ! Alas ! not one 
memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that may 
ever be known is, that she sailed from her port, " and was 
never heard of more ! " ^ 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dis- 
mal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the even- 
ing, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began 
to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of 
those sudden storms which will sometimes break in upon the 
serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light 

» In Irving's day, before the railroad, the ^ Note reflections somewhat similar in 

ocean was a better means of commerce "Westminster Abbey," p. 20. 
than the land. 



THE VOYAGE 5 

of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, 
every one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was 
particularly struck with a short one related by the captain. 

" As I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine stout ship 
across the banks of ISTewfoundland,^ one of those heavy fogs 
which prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for us 
to see far ahead even in the daytime ; but at night the weather 
was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice 
the length of the ship, I kept lights at the masthead, and 
a constant watch forward to look out for fishing smacks, 
which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The 
wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at 
a great rate through the water. Suddenly the watch gave 
the alarm of ' a sail ahead ! ' — it was scarcely uttered before 
we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, 
with her broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, 
and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just 
amidships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel 
bore her down below the waves; we passed over her and were 
hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking 
beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked 
wretches rushing from her cabin; they just started from 
their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard 
their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast that 
bore it to our ears swept us out of all farther hearing. I 
shall never forget that cry! It was some time before we 
could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We 
returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place where 
the smack had anchored. We cruised about for several hours 
in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, and listened if we 
might hear the halloo of any survivors: but all was silent — 
we never saw or heard anything of them more." 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my 
fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea 

1 The banks of Newfoundland are shoals which are often coyered with deep fog. 



6 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful 
sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges. Deep 
called unto deep.^ At times the black column of clouds 
overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning which 
quivered along the foaming billows and made the suc- 
ceeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed 
over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and pro- 
longed by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship stagger- 
ing and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed 
miraculous that she regained her balance or preserved her 
buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water: her bow 
was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an im- 
pending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and noth- 
ing but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her 
from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed 
me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded 
like funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts, the 
straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored 
in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves 
rushing along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very 
ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating 
prison, seeking for his prey : the mere starting of a nail, the 
yawning of a seam, might give him entrance.- 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring 
breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is 
impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather 
and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her 
canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the curl- 
ing waves, how lofty, how gallant she appears — how she 
seems to lord it over the deep ! 

I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, for 

' "Deep calleth unto deep with the noise tion is very characteristic of Irving's 
of thy waterspouts."— Psalm, xlii, 18. essays. It may be noticed especially in 

2 The mingling of description and reflec- the two essays following. 



THE VOYAGE 7 

with me it is almost a continual reverie — ^but it is time to 
get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
" Land ! " was given from the masthead. ISTone but those 
who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious 
throng of sensations which rush into an American's bosom 
when he first Comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume 
of associations with the very name. It is the land of prom- 
ise, teeming with everything of which his childhood has heard, 
or on which his studious years have pondered. 

From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all 
feverish excitement. The ships of war ^ that prowled like 
guardian giants along the coast, the headlands of Ireland 
stretching out into the channel, the Welsh mountains tower- 
ing into the clouds, — all were objects of intense interest. As 
we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with a 
telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with 
their trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw the 
mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper 
spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighbor- 
ing hill,^ — all were characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was en- 
abled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with 
people; some, idle lookers-on, others, eager expectants of 
friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to 
whom the ship was consigned.^ I knew him by his calculat- 
ing brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his 
pockets; he was whistling thoughtfully and walking to and 
fro, a small space having been accorded him by the crowd 
in deference to his temporary importance. There were re- 
peated cheerings and salutations interchanged between the 
shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognize each 

1 Irving reached Liverpool just after the " The decent church that topped the 

battle of Waterloo, while England was neighboring hill." 

still at war with France. 3 The ship was directed to his care. 

" Cf . Goldsmith's Deserted Village : 



8 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

other. I particularly noticed one young woman of humble 
dress but interesting demeanor. She was leaiiing forward 
from among the crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it 
neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She 
seemed disappointed and agitated ; when I heard a faint voice 
call her name. It was from a poor sailor who had been ill 
all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one 
on board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had 
spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late 
his illness had so increased that he had taken to his hajn- 
mock, and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife 
before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came up 
the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a 
countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no 
wonder even the eye of affection did not recognize him. But 
at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features; it 
read at once a whole volume of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, 
uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent 
agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaint- 
ances — the greetings of friends — the consultations of men of 
business. I alone was soHtary and idle. I had no friend to 
meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my 
forefathers ^ — but I felt that I was a stranger in the land. 

' Irving'B feelings were not sentimeutal only: his father came from the Orkneys, his 
mother from the south of England. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

When I behold, with deep astonishment. 
To famous Westminster how there resorts 
Living in brasse or stoney monument, 
The princes and the worthies of all sorte; 
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie. 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
And looke upon offenselesse majesty, 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination? 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon 
Could not content or quench their appetites. 
Life is a frost of cold felicitie. 
And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B., 1598. 

On one of those sober and rather melancholy days in the 
latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and 
evening almost mingle together and throw a gloom over the 
decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about 
Westminster Abbey.^ There was something congenial to the 
season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile; and as 
I passed its threshold it seemed like stepping back into the 
regions of antiquity and losing myself among the shades of 
former ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster School,^ 
through a long, low, vaulted passage that had an almost sub- 
terranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular 
perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark ave- 
nue I had a distant view of the cloisters,^ with the figure of 

1 Westminster, which is now wholly in- English boarding schools. It was estab- 
cluded in London, was formerly a separate lished in the Abbey by Henry VIII. 
town named from the great abbey church ^ cloisters (as may be observed from the 
around which it grew up. The cathedral derivation of the name) are a feature pe- 
itself is very ancient as will be seen from culiarly appropriate to monastic architect- 
Irving's note at the end of the essay. are. The abbey was formerly a monastery 

2 Westminster school is one of the great church. 



10 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

an old verger in his black gown moving along their shadowy 
vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one of the neighbor- 
ing tombs. The approach to the abbey through these gloomy 
monastic remains prepares the mind for its solemn con- 
templation. The cloisters still retain something of the quiet 
and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are discolored 
by damps and crumbling with age; a coat of hoary moss has 
gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments and 
obscured the death's head and other funereal emblems. The 
sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery 
of the arches; the roses which adorned the keystones have 
lost their leafy beauty ; everything bears marks of the gradual 
dilapidations of time, which yet has something touching and 
pleasing in its very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the 
square of the cloisters; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass 
in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted pas- 
sage with a kind of dusky splendor. From between the ar- 
cades the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing 
cloud and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering 
into the azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this 
mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavor- 
ing to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones which 
formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted 
to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away 
by the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies 
of three of the early abbots; the epitaphs were entirely ef- 
faced; the names alone remained, having no doubt been re- 
newed in later times : Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus 
Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176.^ I 
remained some little while musing over these casual ^ relics 
of antiquity thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of 

' These dates go back, it will be observed, almost to the Norman Conquest (1066). 
a preserved by chance. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 11 

time, telling no tale but that such beings had been, and had 
perished; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride 
which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes and to live 
in an inscription. A little longer and even these faint rec- 
ords will be obliterated, and the monument will cease to be 
a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon these 
gravestones I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock re- 
verberating from buttress to buttress and echoing among the 
cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of de- 
parted time sounding among the tombs and telling the lapse 
of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward to- 
wards the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched door open- 
ing to the interior of the abbey. On entering here the mag- 
nitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted 
with the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder 
at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions,^ with arches 
springing from them to such an amazing height, and man 
wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in 
comparison with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and 
gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious 
awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of 
disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb ; wihile every foot- 
fall whispers along the walls and chatters among the sepul- 
chres,^ making us more sensible of the quiet we have inter- 
rupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down 
upon the soul and hushes the beholder into noiseless rever- 
ence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated 
bones of the great men of past times who have filled history 
with their deeds and the earth with their renown. 

^ The Gothic architecture, in the case of smaller columns grouped together, 
a cathedral, has for a main feature lofty * As in most ancient churches the aisles 
columns, from which rise pointed arches and chapels of Westminster Abbey are full 
supporting the roof. In Westminster of tombs. Here have been buried the 
Abbey these columns are not simple, but great men of England for many genera- 
made up in appearance of a number of tions. 



12 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of hu- 
man ambition to see how they are crowded together and 
jostled in the dust ; what parsimony is observed in doling out 
a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, 
to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy; and 
how many shapes and forms and artifices are devised to catch 
the casual notice of the passenger, and save from forgetful- 
ness for a few short years a name which once aspired to 
occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration. 

I passed some time in Poets' Corner,^ which occupies an 
end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The 
monuments are generally simple, for the lives of literary men 
aiford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare 
and Addison have statues erected to their memories, but the 
greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere in- 
scriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these memo- 
rials, I have always observed that the visitors to the abbey 
remained longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling 
takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with 
which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great 
and the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs 
of friends and companions; for indeed there is something 
of companionship between the author and the reader. Other 
men are known to posterity only through the medium of his- 
tory, which is continually growing faint and obscure; but 
the intercourse between the author and his fellow-men is ever 
new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more 
than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments 
and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he 
might the more intimately commune with distant minds and 
distant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown ; for it 
has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but 
by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity 

' Poet's Corner is in the South Transept of the Abbey, where for a long time men of 
lettere have been boried. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 13 

be grateful to his memory; for he has left it an inheritance, 
not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treas- 
ures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of 
language. 

From Poet's Comer I continued my stroll towards that 
part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. 
I wandered among what once were chapels, but which are 
now occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At 
every turn I met with some illustrious name, or the cogni- 
zance of some powerful house renowned in history. As the 
eye darts into these dusky chambers of death it catches 
glimpses of quaint effigies: some kneeling in niches, as if in 
devotion ; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands 
piously pressed together; warriors in armor, as if reposing 
after battle; prelates with crosiers and mitres; and nobles in 
robes and coronets, lying as it were in state. In glancing 
over this scene, so strangely populous, yet Where every form 
is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading 
a mansion of that fabled city where every being had been 
suddenly transmuted into stone. 

I paused to contemplate a tomb on Which lay the effigy of 
a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one 
arm; the hands were pressed together in supplication upon 
the breast; the face was almost covered by the morion; the 
legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's having been en- 
gaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader ; of one 
of those military enthusiasts who so strangely mingled re- 
ligion and romance, and whose exploits form the connecting 
link between fact and fiction, between the history and the 
fairy tale. There is something extremely picturesque in the 
tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they are with rude 
armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture.^ They comport 

* The sculpture of the Middle Ages, as ning of that period that the Goths were a 
well as its architecture, is loosely called powerful people. 
Gothic, although it was only at the begin- 



14 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

with the antiquated chapels in which they are generally 
found; and in considering them the imagination is apt to 
kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic fiction, 
the chivalrous pomp and pageantry which poetry has spread 
over the wars for the sepulchre of Christ. They are the 
relics of time utterly gone by, of beings passed from recol- 
lection, of customs and manners with which ours have no 
affinity. They are like objects from some strange and dis- 
tant land of which we have no certain knowledge, and about 
which all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is 
siomething extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on 
Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the 
supplication of the d}"ing hour. They have an effect in- 
finitely more impressive on my feelings than the fanciful 
attitudes, the overwrought conceits, and allegorical groups 
which abound on modern monuments. I bave been struck, 
also, with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral in- 
scriptions. There was a noble way, in former times, of say- 
ing things simply, and yet saying them proudly; and I do 
not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of 
faanily worth and honorable lineage than one which affirms 
of a noble house that " all the brothers were brave and all the 
sisters virtuous." ^ 

In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monu- 
ment which is among the most renowned achievements of 
modern art, but which to me appears horrible rather than 
sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Eoubiliac.- 
The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing 
open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. 
The shroud is falling from his fleshless frame as he launches 
his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted 
husband's arms, who strives with vain and frantic effort to 

' Irving gives the epitaph in the note on rectly spelled, was a French sculptor (1695- 
p. 25. 1762) who, toward the end of his life, exe- 

^ KoubUlac, as the name is more cor- cuted many statues in England. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 15 

avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth 
and spirit; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of 
triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the spectre. 
But why should we thus seek to clothe death with unneces- 
sary terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those 
we love? The grave should be surrounded by everything 
that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead, 
or that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, not 
of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent 
aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy 
existence from without occasionally reaches the ear, — the 
rumbling of the passing equipage, the murmur of the multi- 
tude, or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast 
is striking with the deathlike repose around; and it has a 
strange effect upon the feelings thus to hear the surges of 
active life hurrying along and beating against the very walls 
of the sepulchre. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb and 
from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing 
away; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less 
and less frequent; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning 
to evening prayers; and I saw at a distance the choristers 
in their white surplices crossing the aisle and entering the 
choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's 
Chapel.^ A flight of steps lead up to it, through a deep and 
gloomy but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly 
and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if 
proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals into 
this most gorgeous of sepulchres. 

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of archi- 
tecture and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The 
very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted 
with tracery, and scooped into niches crowded with the 

> Henry the Seventh's Chapel is an example of very elaborate late Gothic architecture. 



16 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems by the cunning 
labor of the chisel to have been robbed of its weight and 
density, suspended aloft as if by magic, and the fretted roof 
achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of 
a cobweb/ 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the 
Knights of the Bath,' richly carved of oak, though with the 
grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pin- 
nacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the 
knights, with their scarfs and swords; and above them are 
suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, 
and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crim- 
son with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst 
of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder, 
— ^his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous 
tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought 
brazen railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence, this strange 
mixture of tombs and trophies, these emblems of living and 
aspiring ambition close beside mementoes which show the 
dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. 
Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneli- 
ness than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former 
throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls 
of the knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty 
but gorgeous banners that were once borne before them, my 
imagination conjured up the scene when this hall was bright 
with the valor and beauty of the land; glittering with the 
splendor of Jewelled rank and military array; alive with the 
tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. 
All had passed away; the silence of death had settled again 
upon the place, interrupted only by the casual chirping of 

» One of the noteworthy features cf the carved, giving the effect described above, 

chapel is its roof and ceiling, in which "> One of the English orders of Knight- 

the keystones of the vaults have consid- hood, second in dignity only to that of the 

erable pendants which are elaborately Garter. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 17 

birds which, had found their way into the chapel and built 
their nests among its friezes and pendants — sure signs of 
solitariness and desertion. 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were 
those of men scattered far and wide about the world; some 
tossing upon distant seas, some under arms in distant lands, 
some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets, 
all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this mansion 
of shadowy honors, — the melanciholy reward of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a 
touching instance of the equality of the grave, which brings 
down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles 
the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the 
sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth; in the other is that of 
her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary.^ Not an hour 
in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the 
fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. 
The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo with the 
sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary 
lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows 
darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep 
shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and 
weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the 
tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bear- 
ing her national emblem — ^the thistle. I was weary with 
wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, 
revolving in my mind the checkered and disastrous story of 
poor Mary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey, 
I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the 
priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses 

1 Mary, Queen of Scots, was beheaded in throne, and had claimed it long before on 
1587 for conspiracy against Elizabeth. She the ground of Elizabeth's illegitimacy, 
was the heir presumptive to the English 

2 



18 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

of the choir; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. 
The stillness, the desertion and ohscurity that were gradually 
prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest 
to the place: 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers. 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard. 
For nothing is, but all oblivion. 
Dust, and an endless darkness.' 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-lahoring organ burst upon 
the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and 
rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do 
their volume and grandeur accord with this mighty build- 
ing! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults 
and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of 
death, and make the silent sepulchre vocal ! — And now they 
rise in triumph and acclamation, heaving higher and higher 
their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound. — And now 
they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into 
sweet gushes of melody; they soar aloft and warble along 
the roof, and seem to play about these Jofty vaults like the 
pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its 
thrilling thunders, co'mpressing air into music, and rolling 
it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What 
solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more and more dense 
and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the 
very walls — the ear is stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. 
And now it is winding up in full jubilee — it is rising from 
the earth to heaven — ^the very soul seems rapt away and 
floated upwards on this swelling tide of harmony ! ^ 

1 From Beaumont and Fletcher's Thieiry ' Compare 11 Penseroso : 

and Theodoret. One of the many mot- " There let the pealing organ blow 

, ^ ^. . ^, „, ^ ^ T. , To the full-voiced quire below, 

toes and quotations in the Sketch Book jn gervice high and anthem clear, 

that show Irving's delight in the writers As may with s\veetness,through mine ear, 

of the early 17th century. ?'*?'!'^.*' ^^^}^}P estasies, 

And bring all Heaven before my eyes." 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 19 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a 
strain of music is apt ^ sometimes to inspire ; the shadows of 
evening were gradually thickening round me, the monuments 
began to cast deeper and deeper gloom, and the distant clock 
again gave token of the slowly waning day. 

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended 
the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, 
my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor,- 
and I ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to 
take from thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. 
The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close 
around it are the sepulchres of various kings and queens. 
From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and 
funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded 
with tombs, where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and states- 
men lie mouldering in their "beds of darkness." Close by 
me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak 
in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The 
scene seemed almost as if contrived with theatrical artifice 
to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type 
of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power; 
here it was literally but a step from the throne to the sepul- 
chre. Would not one think that these incongruous mementoes 
had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness? 
— to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, 
the neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive; how 
soon that crown which encircles its brow must pass away, 
and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, 
and be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the mul- 
titude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer 
a sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in some natures 
which leads them to sport with awful and hallowed things; 

1 The use of the word with " some- ^ The last of the Anglo-Saxon kings, 

times " shows an earlier meaning now except for Harold who was defeated by 
often forgotten. William the Conqueror. 



20 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

and there are base minds which delight to revenge on the 
illustrious dead the abject homage and groveling servility 
which they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the 
Confessor has been broken open, and his remains despoiled 
of their funereal ornaments ; the sceptre has been stolen from 
the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry 
the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears 
some proof how false and fugitive is the homage of man- 
kind. Some are plundered, some mutilated, some covered 
with ribaldry and insult — all more or less outraged and dis- 
honored ! 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through 
the painted windows in the high vaults above me; the lower 
parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of 
twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. 
The effigies of the kings faded into shadows, the marble fig- 
ures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the un- 
certain light, the evening breeze crept through the aisles 
like the cold breath of the grave, and even the distant foot- 
fall of a verger traversing the Poets' Corner had something 
strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morn- 
ing's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, 
the door closing with a Jarring noise behind me filled the 
whole building with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of 
the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were 
already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Names, 
inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my 
recollection, though I bad scarcely taken my foot from off 
the threshold. W%at, thought I, is this vast assemblage of 
sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation; a huge pile of re- 
iterated homilies on the emptiness of renown and the cer- 
tainty of oblivion! It is indeed the empire of death; his 
great shadowy palace where he sits in state mocking at the 
relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 21 

on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, 
is the immortality of a name ! Time is ever silently turn- 
ing over his pages; we are too much engrossed by the story 
of the present to think of the characters and anecdotes that 
gave interest to the past; and each age is a volume thrown 
aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the 
hero of yesterday out of our recollection ; and will in turn be 
supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. " Our fathers," 
says Sir Thomas Browne,^ " find their graves in our short 
memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our 
survivors." History fades into fable, fact becomes clouded 
with doubt and controversy, the inscription moulders from 
the tablet, the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, 
arches, pyramids — what are they but heaps of sand? and 
their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust? What is 
the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? 
The remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to 
the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curi- 
osity of a museum. " The Egyptian mummies, which Cam- 
byses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth; Mizraim 
cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsam." ^ 

What then is to insure this pile which now towers above 
me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? The 
time must come when its gilded vaults w*hich now spring so 
loftily shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when instead 
of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle 
through the broken arches and the owl hoot from the shat- 
tered tower — when the garish sunbeam shall break into these 
gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen 

column; and the foxglove hang its blossoms about the name- 

« 

» Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682), a covery of some Roman funereal urns, 

writer of the 17th century, whose prose * The allusion is to a supposed use of 

has the character of dignity and quaint- mummies in medicine: the gums or liquors 

ness. This passage and that following are used in the process of embalming were 

taken from a piece entitled The Urn-burial, imagined to have peculiar virtues, 
a reflection on death inspired by the dis- 



22 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

less urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes 
away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his 
history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument be- 
comes a ruin. 

Notes Concekning Westminster Abbey 

[These notes were added by Irving in an Appendix, but it seems ap- 
propriate that they should follow immediately the extract which sug- 
gested them.] 

Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain under the 
dominion of the Saxons was in a state of barbarism and idolatry. 
Pope Gregory the Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo- 
Saxon youths exposed for sale in the market place at Rome, con- 
ceived a fancy for the race, and determined to send missionaries to 
preach the gospel among these comely but benighted islanders. He 
was encouraged to this by learning that Ethelbert, king of Kent and 
the most potent of the Anglo-Saxon princes, had married Bertha, a 
Christian princess, only daughter of the king of Paris, and that she 
was allowed by stipulation the full exercise of her religion. 

The shrewd pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters of 
religious faith. He forthwith despatched Augustine, a Roman monk, 
with forty associates to the court of Ethelbert at Canterbury, to 
effect the conversion of the king and to obtain through him a foot- 
hold in the island. 

Ethelbert received them warily and held a conference in the open 
air, being distrustful of foreign priestcraft and fearful of spells and 
magic. They ultimately succeeded in making him as good a Chris- 
tian as his wife. The conversion of the king of course produced the 
conversion of his loyal subjects. The zeal and success of Augustine 
were rewarded by his being made Archbishop of Canterbury and 
being endowed with authority over all the British churches. 

One of the most prominent converts was Segebert, or Sebert, king 
of the East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert He reigned at London, 
of which Mellitus, one of the Roman monks who had come over with 
Augustine, was made bishop. * 

Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by the 
riverside to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of Apollo, 
being, in fact, the origin of the present pile of Westminster Abbey. 
Great preparations were made for the consecration of the church, 
which was to be dedicated to St. Peter. On the morning of the 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 23 

appointed day, Mellitus, the bishop, proceeded with great pomp and 
solemnity to perform the ceremony. On approaching the edifice he 
was met by a fisherman, who informed him that it was needless to 
proceed as the ceremony was over. The bishop stared with surprise, 
when the fisherman went on to relate that the night before, as he 
was in his boat on the Thames, St. Peter appeared to him and told 
him that he intended to consecrate the church himself that very 
night. The apostle accordingly went into the church, which suddenly 
became illuminated. The ceremony was performed in sumptuous 
style, accompanied by strains of heavenly music and clouds of frag- 
rant incense. After this the apostle came into the boat and ordered 
the fisherman to cast his net. He did so, and had a miraculous 
draught of fishes, one of which he was commanded to present to the 
bishop, and to signify to him that the apostle had relieved him from 
the necessity of consecrating the church. 

Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required confirmation 
of the fisherman's tale. He opened the church doors and beheld wax 
candles, crosses, holy water, oil sprinkled in various places, and 
various other traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had still any lin- 
gering doubts, they were completely removed on the fisherman's pro- 
ducing the identical fish which he had been ordered by the apostle 
to present to him. To resist this would have been to resist ocular 
demonstration. The good bishop accordingly was convinced that the 
church had actually been consecrated by St. Peter in person, so he 
reverently abstained from proceeding further in the business. 

The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why King Edward 
the Confessor chose this place as the site of a religious house Avhich 
he meant to endow. He pulled down the old church and built another 
in its place in 1045. In this his remains were deposited in a mag- 
nificent shrine. 

The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a recon- 
struction, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to assume its present 
appearance. 

Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that monarch 
turning the monks away and seizing upon the revenues. 



Relics of Edward the Confessor 

A curious narrative was printed in 1688 by one of the choristers 
of the cathedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry of the 



24 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

sacred edifice, giving an account of his rummaging among the bones 
of Edward the Confessor, after they had quietly reposed in their 
sepulchre upwards of six hundred years, and of his drawing forth 
the crucifix and golden chain of the deceased monarch. During eigh- 
teen years that he had officiated in the choir, it had been a common 
tradition, he says, among his brother choristers and the gray-headed 
servants of the abbey, that the body of King Edward was deposited 
in a kind of chest, or coffin, which was indistinctly seen in the upper 
part of the shrine erected to his memory. None of the Abbey gos- 
sips, however, had ventured upon a nearer inspection, until the 
worthy narrator to gratify his curiosity mounted to the coffin by 
the aid of a ladder, and found it to be made of wood, apparently 
very strong and firm, being secured by bands of iron. 

Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding used in the 
coronation of James II., the coffin was found to be broken, a hole 
appearing in the lid, probably made through accident by the work- 
men. No one ventured, however, to meddle with the sacred deposi- 
tory of royal dust, until, several weeks afterwards, the circumstance 
came to the knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. He forthwith re- 
paired to the abbey in company with two friends of congenial tastes 
who were desirous of inspecting the tombs. Procuring a ladder he 
again mounted to the coffin, and found, as had been represented, a 
hole in the lid about six inches long and four inches broad, just in 
front of the left breast. Thrusting in his hand, and groping among 
the bones, he drew from underneath the shoulder a crucifix richly 
adorned and enameled, affixed to a gold chain twenty-four inches 
long. These he showed to his inquisitive friends, who were equally 
surprised with himself. 

" At the time," says he, " when I took the cross and chain out of 
the coffin, I drew the head to the hole and viewed it, being very 
sound and firm, with the upper and nether jaws whole and full of 
teeth, and a list of gold above an inch broad, in the nature of a 
coronet, surrounding the temples. There was also in the coffin white 
linen and gold- colored flowered silk that looked indifferent fresh, but 
the least stress put thereto showed it was well-nigh perished. There 
were all his bones, and much dust likewise, which I left as I found." 

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human pride 
than the skull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently pulled 
about in its coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to grin face to 
face wnth him through a hole in the lid! 

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 25 

chain back again into the coffin, and sought the dean, to apprise 
him of his discovery. The dean not being accessible at the time, and 
fearing that the " holy treasure " might be taken away by other 
hands, he got a brother chorister to accompany him to the shrine 
about two or three hours afterwards, and in his presence again drew 
forth the relics. These he afterwards delivered on his knees to King 
James. The king subsequently had the old coffin enclosed in a new 
one of great strength, " each plank being two inches thick and 
cramped together with large iron wedges, where it now remains 
(1688) as a testimony of his pious care, that no abuse might be 
offered to the sacred ashes therein deposited." 

. As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a descrip- 
tion of it in modern times. " The solitary and forlorn shrine," says 
a British writer, " now stands a mere skeleton of what it was. A 
few faint traces of its sparkling decorations inlaid on solid mortar 
catch the rays of the sun, forever set on its splendor. . . . Only 
two of the spiral pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top is much 
broken and covered with dust. The mosaic is picked away in every 
part within reach; only the lozenges of about a foot square and five 
circular pieces of the rich marble remain." — Malcolm, Lond. rediv. 



Inscription on a Monument Alluded to in the Sketch 

Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duchess his second 
wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret Lucas, 
youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of C!ol Chester, a noble family; for 
all the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtuous. This 
Duchess was a wise, witty, and learned lady, which her many Bookes 
do well testify: she was a most virtuous, and loving and careful 
wife, and was with her lord all the time of his banishment and mis- 
eries, and when he came home, never parted from him in his solitary 
retirement. 



In the winter time, when the days are short, the service in the 
afternoon is performed by the light of tapers. The effect is fine of 
the choir partially lighted up, while the main body of the cathedral 
and the transepts are in profound and cavernous darkness. The 
white dresses of the choristers gleam amidst the deep brown of the 
open slats and canopies. The partial illumination makes enormous 



26 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

shadows from columns and screens, and darting into the surrounding 
gloom catches here and there upon a sepulchral decoration or monu- 
mental effigy. The swelling notes of the organ accord well with the 
scene. 

When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his dwelling in the 
old conventual part of the pile by the boys of the choir in their 
white dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes through the 
abbey and along the shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and arches 
and grim sepulchral monuments, and leaving all behind in darkness. 

On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's 
Yard, the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage catches a dis- 
tant view of a white marble figure reclining on a tomb, on which 
a strong glare thrown by a gas light has quite a spectral effect. It 
is a mural monument of one of .the Pultneys. 



CHRISTMAS 

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair 
of his good, gray old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, 
seeing I cannot have more of him. 

Hue and Cry after Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall 
Good fires to curb the cold. 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden. 

And all had welcome true. 
The poor from the gates were not chidden 

When this old cap was new. 

Old Song.« 

Nothing in England exercises a more delightful spell over 
my imagination than the lingerings of the holiday customs 
and rural games of fonner times.^ They recall the pictures 

1 Timers Alterations, the poem from ^ This piece, even more than the preced- 

which this stanza is taken, belongs to one ing, is characteristic of one element in 

of the many collections of songs of the Irving's literary make-up, the fascination 

first half of the 17th century. had for him by the past. One would 



CHRISTMAS 27 

my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as 
yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to 
be all that poets had painted it; and they bring with them 
the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with 
equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more home- 
bred, social, and joyous than at present.^ I regret to say that 
they are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually 
worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modem 
fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic 
architecture ^ which we see crumbling in various parts of 
the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and 
partly lost in the additions and alterations of later days. 
Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the 
rural game and holiday revel from which it has derived so 
many of its themes — as the ivy winds its rich foliage about 
the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying 
their support by clasping together their tottering remains, 
and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens 
the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a 
tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our con- 
viviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and ele- 
vated enjoyment. The services of the Church about this 
season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on 
the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pas- 
toral ^ scenes that accompanied its announcement. They 
gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of 
Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning 
that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a 

almost say that he felt that in leaving i It is a curious comment upon this 

America for England he was going from opinion that the writer of the old song 

the actual world of everyday doings to a quoted, like Irving, thinks that bygone 

delightful region of the imagination. At days were better than his own. 

any rate he loved old places, old legends " See p. 11, note. 

and old usages, of which these papers on ^ connected with shepherd life. 

Bracebridge Hall give especial evidence. 



28 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear 
the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas 
anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile 
with triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of 
yore, that this festival which commemorates the announce- 
ment of the religion of peace and love has been made the 
season for gathering together of family connections, and 
drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which 
the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are con- 
tinually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children 
of a family who have launched forth in life and wandered 
widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal 
hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there to grow 
young and loving again among the endearing mementoes of 
childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year that 
gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times 
we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere 
beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate 
themselves over the sunny landscape, and we " live abroad 
and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the 
stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft volup- 
tuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn, earth 
with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep 
delicious blue and 'its cloudy magnificence, — all fill us with 
mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of 
mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when nature 
lies despoiled of every charm and wrapped in her shroud of 
sheeted snow,^ we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. 
The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short 
gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe 

1 The hatred of winter is thoroughly winter and can appreciate its beauty better 

characteristic of the Middle Ages, which than people could when they could not 

were to Irving the period of romance. At keep warm. Anyone who cannot, should 

the present day we have got better used to read Lowell's A Good Word for Winter. 



CHRISTMAS 29 

our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling 
abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasure 
of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated, 
our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sen- 
sibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more 
closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. 
Heart calleth unto heart; and we draw our pleasures from 
the deep wells of loving-kindness which lie in the quiet re- 
cesses of our bosoms, and which, when resorted to, furnish 
forth the pure element of domestic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on enter- 
ing the room filled with the glow and warmth of the even- 
ing fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and 
sunshine through the room, and lights up each countenance 
in a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of hos- 
pitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile — 
where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent^than 
by the winter fireside ? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind 
rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about 
the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be 
more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered secur- 
ity with which we look round upon the comfortable chamber 
and the scene of domestic hilarity ? 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit ^ 
throughout every class of society, have always been fond of 
those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the 
stillness of country life; and they were in former days par- 
ticularly observant of the religious and social rites of Christ- 
mas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some 
antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque 
pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good- 
fellowsihip with whioh this festival was celebrated. It seemed 
to throw open every door and unlock every heart. It brought 

' The English gentry, in Irving's day, they might come to town for business or 
lived largely in the country, even though pleasure. 



30 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in 
one warm, generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls 
of castles and manor houses resounded with the harp and the 
Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the 
weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed 
the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly 
— the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, invit- 
ing the passengers to raise the latch and join the gossip knot 
huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with 
legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is 
the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. 
It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited 
reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn down 
society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less 
characteristic surface. Many of the games and ceremonials 
of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and like the sherris 
Slack of old Falstaff are become matters of speculation and 
dispute among commentators.^ They flourished in times 
full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, 
but heartily and vigorously; times wild and picturesque, 
which have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and 
the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and 
manners. The world has become more worldly. There is 
more of dissipation and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has ex- 
panded into a broader, but a shallower stream, and has for- 
saken many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed 
sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has 
acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone ; but it has lost 
many of its strong local peculiarities, its home-bred feelings, 
its honest fireside delig'hts. The traditionary customs of 
golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities and lordly 
wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and 
stately manor houses in which they were celebrated. They 

» See the Second Part of Henry the Fourth, IV, iii, 104. 



CHRISTMAS 31 

comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, 
and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted to the light showy 
saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in Eng- 
land. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely 
aroused which holds so powerful a place in every English 
bosom. The preparations making on every side for the social 
board that is again to unite friends and kindred; the pres- 
ents of good cheer passing and repassing, — ^those tokens of 
regard and quickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens dis- 
tributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and 
gladness : all these have the most pleasing effect in produc- 
ing fond associations and kindling benevolent sympathies. 
Even the sound of the waits,^ rude as may be their minstrelsy, 
breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter night with the effect 
of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in 
that still and solemn hour, " when deep sleep f alleth upon 
man," ^ I have listened with a hushed delight, and connect- 
ing them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost 
fancied them into another celesitial choir announcing peace 
and good-will to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination when wrought upon by 
these moral influences turns everything to melody and beauty ! 
The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the pro- 
found repose of the country, " telling ^ the night watches to his 
feathery dames," * was thought by the common people to an- 
nounce the approach of this sacred festival. 

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long; 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; 

• Waits are bands of singers who go ^ Job, iv, 13, and xxxiii, 15. 

about the roads and streets, often at night, - counting, 

singing carols. * Comus, 1. 347. 



32 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike. 
No fairy takes/ no witch hath power to charm. 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, 
and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what 
bosom can remain insensible? It is indeed the season of re- 
generated feeling — ^the season for kindling, not merely the 
fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity 
in the heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond 
the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home, fraught with 
the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the droop- 
ing spirit, as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the 
freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the 
desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land, — though for 
me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open 
its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at 
the threshold, — yet I feel the influence of the season beaming 
into my soul from the happy looks of those around me. 
Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and 
every countenance bright with smiles and glowing with in- 
nocent enjoyment is a mirror transmitting to others the rays 
of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn 
churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fel- 
low-beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his 
loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his moments of 
strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the 
genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm of 
a merry Christmas. 

» puts an evil charm on one. * Hamlet, I, i, 158-164. 



THE STAGE COACH 33 



THE STAGE •coach 

Omne bene 

Sine poena 
Tempus est ludendi: 

Venit hora 

Absque mora 
Libros deponendi. 

Old Holiday School Song.i 

In the preceding paper I have made some general observa- 
tions on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted 
to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in 
the country; in perusing which I would most courteously in- 
vite my reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to 
put on that genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly 
and anxious only for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for 
a long distance in one of the public coaches on the day pre- 
ceding Christmas. The coach was crowded both inside and 
out with passengers who, by their talk, seemed principally 
bound to the mansions of relations or friends to eat the 
Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game 
and baskets and boxes of delicacies ; and hares hung dangling 
their long ears about the coachman's box, presents froni dis- 
tant friends for the impending feast. I had three fine rosy- 
cheeked boys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the 
buxom health and manly spirit which I have obsierved in the 
children of this country. They were returning home for the 
holidays in high glee, and promising themselves a world of 
enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of 

1 The following is rather a free transla- This recalls the words with which 

tion : James Lovell dismissed the Boston Latin 

" Tasks and troubles all are done; School ou the morning of April 19th, 1775. 

And the time for play " War's begun, 

Long delayed, is now begun: School's done ; 

Put the books away." Deponite libros." 

3 



34 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

the little rogues and the impracticable feats they were to 
perform during their six %eeks' emancipation from the ab- 
horred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were 
full of anticipations of the meeting with the family and 
household, down to the very cat and dog; and of the joy they 
were to give their little sisters by the presents with which 
their pockets were crammed; but the meeting to which they 
seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was with 
Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and according to their 
talk possessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of 
Bucephalus.^ How he could trot ! how he could run ! and 
then such leaps as he would take — ^there was not a hedge in 
the whole country that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the coach- 
man, to whom whenever an opportunity presented they ad- 
dressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the 
best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could not but notice the 
more than ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coach- 
man, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large 
bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the buttonhole of his coat. 
He is always a personage full of mighty care and business, 
but he is particularly so during this season, having so many 
commissions to execute in consequence of the great inter- 
change of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be un- 
acceptable to my untraveled readers to have a sketch that 
may serve as a general representation of this very numerous 
and important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a 
manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and preva- 
lent throughout the fraternity; so that wherever an English 
stage coacliman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one 
of any other craft or mystery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with 
red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every 

» The wonderful horse of Alexander the Great; no one could ride him but the con- 
queror of the world. 



THE STAGE COACH 35 

vessel of the skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by fre- 
quent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further 
increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like 
a cauliflower, the upp'er one reaching to his heels. He wears 
a broad-ibrimmed, low-crowned hat; a huge roll of colored 
handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked 
in at the bosom ; and has in summer time a large bouquet of 
flowers in his buttonhole — the present, most probably, of 
some enamored country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of 
some bright color, striped, and his small clothes extend far 
below the knees to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach 
about halfway up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision; he 
has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials; and 
notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, 
there is still discernible that neatness and propriety of person 
which is almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great 
consequence and consideration along the road; has frequent 
conferences with the village housewives, who look upon him 
as a man of great trust and dependence ; and he seems to have 
a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. 
The moment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, 
he throws down the reins with something of an air and 
abandons the cattle ^ to the care of the hostler, his duty being 
merely to drive from one stage to another. When off the box 
his hands are thrust into the pockets of his greatcoat, and he 
rolls about the inn yard with an air of the most absolute lord- 
liness. Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring 
throng of hostlers, stableboys, shoeblacks, and those nameless 
hangers-on that infest inns and taverns and run errands and 
do all kind of odd jobs for the privilege of battening on the 
drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of the taproom. 
These all look up to him as to an oracle, treasure up his cant 
phrases, echo his opinions about horses and other topics of 

1 his horses. 



36 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

jockey lore, and above all endeavor to imitate his air and 
carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back thrusts 
his hands in the pockets^ rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is 
an embryo " coachey." 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that 
reigned in my own mind that I fancied I saw cheerfulness 
in every countenance throughout the journey. A stage coach, 
however, carries animation always with it, and puts the world 
in motion as it whirls along. The horn sounded at the en- 
trance of a village produces a general bustle. Some hasten 
forth to meet friends; some with bundles and bandboxes to 
secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take 
leave of the group that accompanies them. In the mean time 
the coachman has a world of small commissions to execute. 
Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a 
small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public house; and 
sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import, hands 
to some half-blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd- 
shaped billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach 
rattles through the village every one runs to the window, and 
you have glances on every side of fresh country faces and 
blooming, giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntos 
of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations there 
for the important purpose of seeing company pass; but the 
sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the 
passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. 
The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the 
vehicle whirls by ; the cyclops ^ round the anvil suspend their 
ringing hammers and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the 
sooty spectre, in brown paper cap laboring at the bellows, 
leans on the handle for a moment and permits the asthmatic 
engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through 
the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy. 

» The Cyclopes were the workmen of Vulcau, the craftsman and artificer of the 
ancient gods. 



THE STAGE COACH 37 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more 
than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as 
if everybody vi^as in good looks and good spirits. Game, 
poultry, and other luxuries of the table were in brisk circu- 
lation in the villages; the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' 
shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were 
stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; and 
the glossy branches of holly with their bright-red berries be- 
gan to appear at the windows. The scene brought to mind 
an old writer's account of Christmas preparations : " Now 
capons and hens, beside turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef 
and mutton, must all die, for in twelve days ^ a multitude 
of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, 
sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or 
never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance and 
sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The 
country maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again 
if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the 
contention of holly and ivy, whether master or dame wears 
the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; and if the 
cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." ^ 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a 
shout from my little traveling companions. They had been 
looking out of the coach windows for the last few miles, recog- 
nizing every tree and cottage as they approached home, and 
now there was a general burst of joy — " There's John ! and 
there's old Carlo ! and there's Bantam ! " cried the happy little 
rogues, clapping their hands. 

At the end of the lane there was an old sober-looking ser- 
vant in livery waiting for them; he was accompanied by a 
superannuated pointer and by the redoubtable Bantam, a 
little old rat of a pony with a shaggy mane and long rusty 

> The twelve days which make the full son. The passage is from his " Twelve 

Christmas festival from Christmas Eve to Months," 1661, said to be a curious and 

Epiphany or Twelfth Night. interesting book. 

2 The old writer was Matthew Steven- 



38 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

tail, who stood dozing quietly by the roadside, little dreaming 
of the bustling times that awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fel- 
lows leaped about the steady old footman and hugged the 
pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam 
was the great object of interest; all wanted to niount at once, 
and it was with some difficulty that John arranged that they 
should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first. 

Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog bound- 
ing and barking before him, and the others holding John's 
hands ; both talking at once, and overpowering him with ques- 
tions about home and with school anecdotes. I looked after 
them with a feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure 
or melancholy predominated; for I was reminded of those 
days when, like them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, 
and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped 
a few moments afterwards to water the horses, and on resum- 
ing our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a 
neat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a 
lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little 
comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along 
the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach window in hopes 
of witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it 
from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had deter- 
mined to pass the nig'ht. As we drove into the great gate- 
way of the inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing 
kitchen fire beaming through a window. I entered, and ad- 
mired for the hundredth time that picture of convenience, 
neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an 
English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round 
with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated 
here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and 
flitches of bacon were suspended from the ceiling; a smoke- 
jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a 



THE STAGE COACH 39 

clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal table ex- 
tended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold round of 
beef and other hearty viands upon it, over which two foaming 
tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travelers of in- 
ferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast, while 
others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high- 
backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids were 
hurrying backwards and forwards under the directions of a 
fresh, bustling landlady, but still seizing an occasional mo- 
ment to exchange a flippant word and have a rallying laugh 
with the group round the fire. The scene completely realized 
Poor Kobin's humble idea of the comforts of midwinter : 

Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair; 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale now and a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal fire. 
Are things this season doth require.* 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove 
up to the door. A young gentleman stepped out, and by the 
light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which 
I thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, 
when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it was Frank 
Bracebridge, a sprightly, good-humored young fellow with 
whom I had once traveled on the continent. Our meeting 
was extremely cordial, for the countenance of an old fellow- 
traveler always brings up the recollection of a thousand 
pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To dis- 
cuss all these in a transient interview at an inn was impos- 
sible; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and was 
merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should 
give him a day or two at his father's country seat, to which 
he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay at a few 

* Poor Bobin's Almanac, 1684. 



40 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

miles' distance. " It is better than eating a solitary Christ- 
mas dinner at an inn," said he, " and I can assure you of a 
hearty welcome in something of the old-fashioned style." 
His reasoning was cogent, and I must confess the prepara- 
tion I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment 
had made me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I closed 
therefore at once with his invitation; the chaise drove up to 
the door, and in a few moments I was on my way to the family 
mansion of the Bracebridges. 



CHEISTMAS EVE 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blessel this house from wicked wight; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets: 

From curfew time 

To the next prime.' 

Cartwright. 

It was a 'brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold ; our 
chaise w'hirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the postboy 
smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his 
horses were on a gallop. " He knows where he is going," said 
my companion, laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time for 
some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. 
My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old 
school, and prides himself upon keeping up something of old 
English hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you 
will rarely meet with nowadays in its purity, the old English 

> Preserve. So "Bless you from whirl- same meaning, as in Herrick's "Lines to 
wind," King Lear, ni, iv, 57— Even the the Bellman." 
Latin word Benedicite was used with the ^ The first hour of the day. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 41 

country gentleman;^ for our men of fortune spend so much 
of their time in town, and fashion is carried so much into the 
country, that the strong, rich peculiarities of ancient rural 
life are almost polished away. My father, however, from 
early years, took honest Peacham ^ for his text-hook instead 
of Chesterfield; he determined in his own mind that there 
was no condition more truly honorable and enviable than that 
of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, and therefore 
passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous 
advocate for the revival of the old rural games and holiday 
observances, and is deeply read in the writers, ancient and 
modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed his favor- 
ite range of reading is among the authors who flourished at 
least two centuries since,^ who, he insists, wrote and thought 
more like true Englishmen than any of their successors. He 
even regrets sometimes that he had not been born a few cen- 
turies earlier, when England was itself and had its peculiar 
manners and customs. As he lives at some distance from the 
main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, without any 
rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable of ail bless- 
ings to an Englisliman, an opportunity of indulging the bent 
of his own humor without molestation. Being representa- 
tive of the oldest family in the neighborhood, and a great 
part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked up 

1 The old English country gentleman has in trifles, gaming, or courting all the win- 
for generations been the type of hospitality ter in the city ; appearing but as cuckoos 
and healthy life. This picture is perhaps in the spring, one time in the year to the 
suggested, and at least may be compared, country and their tenants, leaving the care 
with the figure of Sir Roger de Coverley in of keeping good houses at Christmas to 
the Spectator. But the type is older even the honest yeomen of the country." Lord 
than that. The lines quoted on p. 26 are Chesterfield, on the other hand, was a fine 
from a poetn which compares the old- gentleman of the 18th century, the ideal 
fashioned country gentleman with the new- example of polished refinement of social 
fangled courtier. manners. 

2 Henry Peacham published T/ie Com- ' It has already been noticed that almost 
plete Gentleman in 1632, in which, among all the quotations in the Sketch Book are 
other things, he held up to praise the from writers of the first half of the 17th 
country life. "I detest," he writes, " that century. A good many of these had been 
effeminacy of the most that burn out day forgotten and were, in Irving's time, being 
and night in their beds and by the fireside, revived, as. we may say. 



42 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

to, and in general is known simply by the appellation of * The 
Squire/ a title which has been accorded to the head of the 
family since time immemorial. I think it best to give you 
these hints about my worthy old father, to prepare you for 
any eccentricities that might otherwise appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and 
at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy 
magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top 
into flourishes and flowers. The huge square columns that 
supported the gate were surmounted by the family crest. 
Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark 
fir trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
through the still frosty air, and was answered by the distant 
barking of dogs with which the mansion house seemed gar- 
risoned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. 
As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a 
little primitive dame dressed very much in the antique taste, 
with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair peep- 
ing from under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came courte- 
sying forth with many expressions of simple joy at seeing 
her young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the 
house keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall ; they could 
not do without him, as he was the best hand at a song and 
story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk through 
the park to the hall, which was at no great distance, while 
the chaise should follow on. Our road wound through a noble 
avenue of trees, among the naked branches of which the moon 
glittered as she rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless 
sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of 
snow, which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught 
a frosty crystal ; and at a distance might be seen a thin trans- 
parent vapor stealing up from the low grounds and threaten- 
ing gradually to shroud the landscape. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 43 

My companion looked around him with transport : " How 
often/' said he, " have I scampered up this avenue on return- 
ing home on school vacations! How often have I played 
under these trees when a boy ! I feel a degree of filial rever- 
ence for them, as we look up to those who have cherished us 
in childhood. My father was always scrupulous in exacting 
our holidays and having us around him on family festivals. 
He used to direct and superintend our games with the strict- 
ness that some parents do the studies of their children. He 
was very particular that we should play the old English games 
according to their origin-al form ; and consulted old books for 
precedent and authority for every ' merrie disport ' ; ^ yet I 
assure you there never was pedantry so delightful. It was 
the policy of the good old gentleman to make his children feel 
that home was the happiest place in the world; and I value 
this delicious home feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent 
could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of 
all sorts and sizes, " mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and 
curs of low degree," ^ that, disturbed by the ring of the por- 
ter's bell and the rattling of the chaise came bounding open- 
mouthed across the lawn. 

" The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me! "^ 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice the 
bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he 
was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of 
the faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, 
partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold 
moonshine. It was an irregular building of some magnitude, 
and seemed to be of the architecture of different periods. One 

> Quoted, perhaps, from Stowe, as cited » From the "Elegy on the Death of a 

p. 77, note. Mad Dog," by Goldsmith. 

» King Lear, IH, vi, 66. 



44 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow 
windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among the 
foliage of which the small diamond-shaped panes of glass 
glittered with the moonbeams. The rest of the house was in 
the French taste of Charles the Second's time, having been 
repaired and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his an- 
cestors who returned with that monarch at the Eestoration. ' 
The grounds about the house were laid out in the old formal 
manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised 
terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with urns, 
a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. The old gentle- 
man, I was told, was extremely careful to preserve this ob- 
solete finery in all its original state. He admired this fashion 
in gardening; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and 
noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted imi- 
tation of nature in modern gardening had sprimg up with 
modern republican notions, but did not suit a monarchical 
government; it smacked of the levelling system. I could not 
help smiling at this introduction of politics into gardening, 
though I expressed some apprehension that I should find the 
old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. Frank as- 
sured me, however, that it was almost the only instance in 
which he had ever heard his father meddle with politics ; and 
he believed that he had got this notion from a member of 
Parliament who once passed a few weeks with him. The 
squire was glad of any argument to defend his clipped yew 
trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally at- 
tacked by modern landscape gardeners. 

As we approached the house we heard the sound of music, 
and now and then a burst of laughter from one end of the 
building. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the 
servants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted 
and even encouraged by the squire throughout the twelve days 
of Christmas, provided everything was done conformably to 

> The return of Charles the Second from France in 1660 after the Protectorate. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 45 

ancient usage. Here were kept up the old games of hoodman 
blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, 
bob apple, and snap dragon ; the Yule clog ' and Christmas 
candle were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe with its white 
berries hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty house- 
maids. ^ 

So intent were the servants upon their sports that we had 
to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On 
our arrival being announced, the squire came out to receive 
us, accompanied by his two other sons — one a young officer in 
the army, home on leave of absence; the other an Oxonian,' 
just from the university. The squire was a fine, healthy- 
looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round 
an open florid countenance, in which the physiognomist, with 
the advantage like myself of a previous hint or two, might 
discover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate. As the 
evening was far advanced, the squire would not permit us to 
change our traveling dresses, but ushered us at once to the 
company, which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. 
It was composed of different branches of a numerous family 
connection, where there were the usual proportion of old 
uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated 
spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged striplings, 
and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They were vari- 
ously occupied: some at a round game of cards, others con- 
versing . around the fireplace; at one end of the hall was a 
group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a 
more tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry 
game ; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and 
tattered dolls about the floor showed traces of a troop of little 

■ or log: see Irving's Note, p.46. a berry from the bush. When the berries 

2 The mistletoe is still hung up in farm- are all plucked, the privilege ceases.— 

houses and kitchens at Christmas ; and Ibving's Note. 

the young men have the privilege of kiss- = A student at the University of Ox- 

ing the girls under it, plucking each time ford. 



46 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a happy day, had 
been carried off to slumber through a peaceful night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between young 
Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apart- 
ment. I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in 
old times, and the squire had evidently endeavored to restore 
it to something of its primitive state. Over the heavy pro- 
jecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a warrior in 
armor, standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall 
hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an enor- 
mous pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the branches 
serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs; 
and in the corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fish- 
ing-rods, and other sporting implements. The furniture was 
of the cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some 
articles of modern convenience had been added, and the oaken 
floor had been carpeted; so that the whole presented an odd 
mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming 
fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which 
was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and sending forth 
a vast volume of light and heat: this I understood was the 
Yule clog, which the squire was particular in having brought 
in and illumined on a Christmas eve according to ancient 
custom.^ 

1 The Yule clog is a great log of wood, Come, bring with a noiBe, 

sometimes the root of a tree, brought into „, My merrie, merrie boyes, 

., , ... , „, . . The Christmas log to the firing ; 

the house with great ceremony on Christ- ^hile my gold dame, she 
mas eve, laid in the fireplace, and lighted Bids ye all be free, 
with the brand of last year's clog. While And drink to your hearts desiring, 
it lasted, there was great drinking, sing- The Yule clog is still burnt in many 
ing, and telling of tales. Sometimes it farmhouses and kitchens in England, par- 
was accompanied by Christmas candles ; ticularly in the north, and there are several 
but in the cottages the only light was from superstitions connected with it among the 
the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. Peasantry. If a squinting person come to 

„, „ , •' , , *= „. the house while it is burning, or a person 

The Yule clog was to burn all night ; if it barefooted, it is considered an ill omen, 

went out, it was considered a sign of ill The brand remaining from the Yule clog 

luck. is carefully put away to light the next 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs :— year's Christmas fire.— Ibving's Notb. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 47 

It was really delightful to see tlie old squire seated in his 
hereditary elbow chair by the hospitable fireside of his an- 
cestors, and looking around him like the sun of a system, 
beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the very 
dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his posi- 
tion and yawned, would look fondly up in his master's face, 
wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again to 
sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There is an 
emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality which can- 
not be described, but is immediately felt, and puts the stran- 
ger at once at his ease. I had not been seated many minutes 
by the comfortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier before 
I found myself as much at home as if I had been one of the 
family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was 
served up in a spacio-us oaken chamber, the panels of which 
shone with wax, and around which were several family por- 
traits decorated with holly and ivy. Besides the accustomed 
lights, two great wax tapers called Christmas candles, 
wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly polished 
beauf et ^ among the family plate. The table was abundantly 
spread with substantial fare; but the squire made his supper 
of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk, with 
rich spices, being a standing dish in old times for Christmas 
eve. 

I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in the re- 
tinue of the feast; and finding him to be perfectly ortho- 
dox,^ and that I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I 
greeted him with all the warmth wherewith we usually greet 
an old and very genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the 
humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge al- 

1 now more commonly buffet. on other and more significant ceremonies. 

» Cf. p. 62. The Puritans frowned on Irving is always fond of a jest at the old 
mince pie, on church festivals, as well as New Bnglanders, as in Ichaibod Crane. 



48 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

ways addressed with the quaint appellation of Master Simon. 
He was a tight, brisk little man, with the air of an arrant 
old bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a parrot; 
his face slightly pitted with the small-pox, with a dry per- 
petual bloom on it like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He 
had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery 
and lurking waggery of expression that was irresistible. He 
was evidently the wit of the family, dealing very much in 
sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite 
merriment by harping upon old themes, which, unfortunately, 
my ignorance of the family chronicles did not permit me to 
enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight during supper to 
keep a young girl next him in a continual agony of stifled 
laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of her 
mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the 
younger part of the company, who laughed at everything he 
said or did, and at every turn of his countenance ; I could not 
wonder at it, for he must have been a miracle of accomplish- 
ments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy; 
make an old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a 
burnt cork and pocket handkerchief; and cut an orange into 
such a ludicrous caricature that the young folks were ready 
to die with laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. 
He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, 
which by careful management was sufficient for all his wants. 
He revolved through the family system like a vagrant comet 
in its orbit; sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes 
another quite remote; as is often the case with gentlemen of 
extensive connections and small fortunes in England. He 
had a chirping buoyant disposition, always enjoying the 
present moment; and his frequent change of scene and com- 
pany prevented his acquiring those rusty unaccommodating 
habits with which old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. 
He was a complete family chronicle, being versed in the 



CHRISTMAS EVE 49 

genealogy, history, and intermarriages of the whole house of 
Bracebridge, which made him a great favorite with the old 
folks ; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and superannuated 
spinsters, among whom he was habitually considered rather a 
young fellow; and he was master of the revels among the 
children: so that there was not a more popular being in the 
sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of 
late years he had resided almost entirely with the squire, to 
whom he had become a factotum,^ and whom he particularly 
delighted by jumping with his humor in respect to old times, 
and by having a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. 
We had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, for 
no sooner was supper removed and spiced wines and other 
beverages peculiar to the season introduced than Master Si- 
mon was called on for a good old Christmas song. He be- 
thought himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of the 
eye and a voice that was by no means bad, excepting that it 
ran occasionally into a falsetto like the notes of a split reed, 
he quavered forth a quaint old ditty : 

Now Christmas is come. 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together. 

And when they appear, 

Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old 
harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had 
been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance com- 
forting himself with some of the squire's home-brewed. He 
was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and, 
though ostensibly a resident of the village, was oftener to be 
found in the squire's kitchen than his own home, the old gen- 
tleman being fond of the sound of " harp in hall." 

1 one who manages everything. 

4 



50 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one ; 
some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire himself 
figured down several couple with a partner with whom he 
affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for nearly half a 
century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connect- 
ing link between the old times and the new, and to be withal 
a little antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, evi- 
dently piqued himself on his dancing, and was endeavoring 
to gain credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other graces 
of the ancient school; but he had unluckily assorted himself 
with a little romping girl from boarding-school, who by her 
wild vivacity kept him continually on the stretch, and de- 
feated all his sober attempts at elegance, — such are the ill- 
assorted matches to which antique gentlemen are unfortu- 
nately prone ! 

. The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his 
maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little 
knaveries with impunity; he was full of practical jokes, and 
his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins; yet, like all 
madcap youngsters, he was a universal favorite among the 
women. The most interesting couple in the dance was the 
young officer and a ward of the squire's, a beautiful blushing 
girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which I had 
noticed in the course of the evening, I suspected there was a 
little kindness growing up between them; and indeed the 
young soldier was just the hero to captivate a romantic girl. 
He was tall, slender, and handsome, and, like most young 
British officers of late years, had picked up various small ac- 
complishments on the continent ^ — he could talk French and 
Italian — draw landscapes, sing very tolerably — dance di- 
vinely ; but above all he had been wounded at Waterloo. What 
girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, could re- 
sist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection ! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, 

' In the years before Waterloo the English armies had been much on the continent. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 51 

and lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude 
which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, began the 
little French air of the Troubadour. The squire, however, 
exclaimed against having anything on Christmas eve but good 
old English; upon which the young minstrel, casting up his 
eye for a moment as if in an effort of memory, struck into an- 
other strain, and with a charming air of gallantry gave Her- 
rick's Night-Piece to Julia: ^ 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee; 
The shooting stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will o' the Wisp mislight thee; 
Nor snake nor slow- worm bite thee; 
But on, on thy way, 
'Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber; 
What though the moon does slumber. 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me. 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 

The song might or might not have been intended in com- 
pliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was 
called; she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such 
application, for she never looked at the singer, but kept her 
eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was suffused, it is true, 

1 This was "good old English," Herrick being a poet of the 17th century. 



52 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

with a beautiful blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the 
bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the exercise of 
the dance ; indeed, so , great was her indifference, that she 
amused herself with plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of 
hothouse flowers, and by the time the song was concluded the 
nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the kind- 
hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through 
the hall on my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the 
Yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not been 
the season when " no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have 
been half tempted to steal from my room at midnight, and 
peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels about the 
hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the pon- 
derous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the 
days of the giants. The room was panelled with cornices of 
heavy carved work, in which flowers and grotesque faces were 
strangely intermingled; and a row of black-looking portraits 
stared mournfully at me from the walls. The bed was of 
rich though faded damask, with a lofty tester,^ and stood in a 
niche opposite a bow window. I had scarcely got into bed 
when a strain of music seemed to break forth in the air just 
below the window. I listened, and found it proceeded from 
a band which I concluded to be the waits from some neigh- 
boring village. They went round the house, playing under 
the windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear them more 
distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the upper part of 
the casement, partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. 
The sounds as they receded became more soft and aerial, and 
seemed to accord with the quiet and moonlight. I listened 
and listened ; they became more and more tender and remote, 
and as they gradually died away my head sunk upon the pil- 
low and I fell asleep. 

> the canopy over the bed. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 53 



CHRISTMAS DAY 

Dark and dull night, fly hence away. 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 

***** 
Why does the chilling winter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corn? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne. 
Thus on the sudden? — Come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be.* 

Herrick. 

When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the 
events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and noth- 
ing but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced me of 
their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the 
sound of little feet pattering outside of the door and a whis- 
pering consultation. Presently a choir of small voices 
chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of which 

was: 

Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipped on my clothes, opened the door sud- 
denly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups 
that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two 
girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They 
were going the rounds of the house, and singing at every 
chamber door; but my sudden appearance frightened them 
into mute bashfulness. They remained for a moment play- 
ing on their lips with their fingers, and now and then stealing 
a shy glance from under their eyebrows, until as if by one im- 

* These lines are from Herrick's "Christ- composed hy Mr. Henry Lawes, who com- 
mas Carol." They were written for music posed the music for Milton's Comus. 



54 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

pulse they scampered away, and as they turned an angle of the 
gallery I heard them laughing in triumph at their escape. 

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings 
in this stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window 
of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would have 
been a beautiful landscape.^ There was a sloping lawn, a 
fine stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park be- 
yond with noble clumps of trees and herds of deer. At a 
distance was a neat hamlet with the smoke from the cottage 
chimneys hanging over it, and a church with its dark spire in 
strong relief against the clear, cold sky. The house was sur- 
rounded with evergreens, according to the English custom, 
which would have given almost an appearance of summer, 
but the morning was extremely frosty; the light vapor of 
the preceding evening had been precipitated by the cold, and 
covered all the trees and every blade of grass with its fine 
crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning sun had a daz- 
zling effect among the glittering foliage. A robin perched 
upon the top of a mountain ash that hung its clusters of red 
berries just before my window was basking himself in the 
sunshine, and piping a few querulous notes; and a peacock 
was displaying all the glories of his train, and strutting with 
the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee on the terrace 
walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself when a servant appeared to 
invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a 
small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found the 
principal part of the family already assembled in a kind of 
gallery furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer- 
books; the servants were seated on benches below. The old 
gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, 
and Master Simon acted as clerk and made the responses ; and 
I must do him the justice to say that he acquitted himself 
with great gravity and decorum. 

* Doubtless it had its peculiar beauty in winter, too, although Irving did not see it. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 55 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol which Mr. 
Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem ^ of his 
favorite author, Herrick; and it had been adapted to an old 
church melody by Master Simon. As there were several good 
voices among the household, the effect was extremely pleas- 
ing; but I was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart 
and sudden sally of grateful feeling with which the worthy 
squire delivered one stanza, his eye glistening, and his voice 
rambling out of all the bounds of time and tune : 

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 

With guiltlesse mirth. 
And giv'st me Wassaile bowles to drink 

Spiced to the brink: 
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land: 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne. 

Twice ten for one. 

I afterwards understood that early morning service was 
read on every Sunday and saints' day throughout the year 
either by Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of the family. 
It was once almost universally the case at the seats of the 
nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted 
that the custom is falling into neglect; for the dullest ob- 
server must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in 
those households where the occasional exercise of a beautiful 
form of worship in the morning gives, as it were, the keynote 
to every temper for the day, and attunes every spirit to har- 
mony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denominated 
true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamenta- 
tions over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he cen- 
sured as among the causes of modern effeminacy and weak 

' The poem will be found in Herrick's Noble Numbers, where it is called "A 
Thanksgiving to Gbd for my House." 



56 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

nerves, and the decline of old English heartiness ; and though 
he admitted them to his table to suit the palates of his guests, 
yet there was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on 
the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank 
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he was 
called by everybody but the squire. We were escorted by 
a number of gentlemanlike dogs that seemed loungers aihout 
the establishment, from the frisking spaniel to the steady old 
stag-hound; the last of which was of a race that had been in 
the family time out of mind. They were all obedient to a 
dog-whistle which hung to ]\Iaster Simon's buttonhole, and 
in the midst of their gambols would glance an eye occasionally 
upon a small switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the 
yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not but 
feel the force of the squire's idea, that the formal terraces, 
heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew trees carried 
with them an air of proud aristocracy. There appeared to be 
an unusual number of peacocks about the place, and I was 
making some remarks upon what I termed a flock of them 
that were basking under a sunny wall, when I was gently cor- 
rected in my phraseology by Master Simon, who told me that 
according to the most ancient and approved treatise on hunt- 
ing. I must say a muster of peacocks. " In the same way," 
added he with a slight air of pedantry, " we say a flight of 
doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, 
or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." He went 
on to inform me that according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert * 
we ought to ascribe to this bird "both understanding and 
glory; for being praised he will presently set up his tail, 
chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the better be- 
hold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf when 

' See page 57, where Master Simon's "small erudition " is explained. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 57 

his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in comers till 
his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition 
on so whimsical a subject ; but I found that the peacocks were 
birds of some consequence at the hall, for Frank Bracebridge 
informed me that they were great favorites with his father, 
who was extremely careful to keep up the breed; partly be- 
cause they belonged to chivalry, and were in great request 
at the stately banquets of the olden time ; and partly because 
they had a pomp and magnificence about them highly becom- 
ing an old family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to 
say, had an air of greater state and dignity than a peacock 
perched upon an antique stone balustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint- 
ment at the parish church with the village choristers, who 
were to perform some music of his selection. There was 
something extremely agreeahle in the cheerful flow of animal 
spirits of the little man; and I confess I had been somewhat 
surprised at his apt quotations from authors who certainly 
were not in the range of everyday reading. I mentioned 
this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, who told me 
with a smile that Master Simon's whole stock of erudition 
was confined to some half a dozen old authors which the squire 
had put into his hands, and which he read over and over when- 
ever he had a studious fit, as he sometimes had on a rainy 
day or a long winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's 
Booh of Husbandry, Markham's Country Contentments, the 
Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight, Izaak 
Walton's Angler,^ and two or three more such ancient wor- 
thies of the pen, were his standard authorities; and like all 
men who know but a few books, he looked up to them with 
a kind of idolatry, and quoted them, on all occasions. As to 
his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the 

1 These are all from the literature of the 16th and 17th centuries ; the last only has 
survived in general knowledge. 



58 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popular 
among the choice spirits of the last century. His practical 
application of scraps of literature, however, had caused him 
to be looked upon as a prodigy of book knowledge by all the 
grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the neighborhood. 
While we were talking we heard the distant tolling of the 
village bell, and I was told that the squire was a little par- 
ticular in having his household at church on a Christmas 
morning, considering it a day of pouring out of thanks and 
rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser ^ observed : 

At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, 

And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small. 

" If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Brace- 
bridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's 
musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an or- 
gan, he has formed a band from the village amateurs and 
established a musical club for their improvement. He has 
also sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, 
according to the directions of Gervase Markham, in his 
Country Contentments. For the bass he has sought out all 
the ' deep, solemn mouths,' and for the tenor the ' loud-ring- 
ing mouths,' among the country bumpkins ; and for ' sweet 
mouths,' he has called with curious taste among the prettiest 
lasses in the neighborhood; though these last, he atfirms, are 
the most difficult to keep in tune; your pretty female singer 
being exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable 
to accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and 
clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which was 
a very old building of gray stone, and stood near a village, 
about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low 
snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the church. The 

1 Thomas Tusser was the author of A Hundred Good Points of Good Husbandry, 
and other like works. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 59 

front of it was perfectly matted with a yew tree that had been 
trained against its walls, through the dense foliage of which 
apertures had been formed to admit light into the small an- 
tique lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the parson 
issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, such 
as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich 
patron's, table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a 
little, meagre, black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that 
was too wide and stood off from each ear; so that his head 
seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert in 
its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pockets 
that would have held the church Bible and prayer-book; and 
his small legs seemed still smaller from being planted in large 
shoes, decorated with enormous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had 
been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received this 
living shortly after the latter had come to his estate.^ He 
was a complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely read a 
work printed in the Eoman character. The editions of Caxton 
and Wynkyn de Worde were his delight; and he was inde- 
fatigable in his researches after such old English writers as 
have fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness. In def- 
erence perhaps to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had 
made diligent investigations into the festive rites and holiday 
customs of former times; and had been as zealous in the in- 
quiry as if he had been a boon companion; but it was merely 
with that plodding spirit with which men of adust tempera- 
ment follow up any track of study, merely because it is de- 
nominated learning; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, 
whether it be the illustration of the wisdom, or of the ribaldry 
and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these old 
volumes so intensely that they seemed to have been reflected 

* It was often the case in England that a great land owner had the right to name the 
clergyman of the parish church. 



60 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

in his countenance; which, if the face be indeed an index of 
the mind, might be compared to a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church porch we found the parson re- 
buking the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe 
among the greens with which the church was decorated. It 
was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having been 
used by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies ; ^ and though 
it might be innocently employed in the festive ornamenting of 
halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of 
the Church as unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred pur- 
poses. So tenacious was he on this point that the poor sex- 
ton was obliged to strip down a great part of the humble 
trophies of his taste before the parson would consent to enter 
upon the service of the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable but simple; on 
the walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, 
and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship 
on which lay the effigy of a warrior in armor, with his legs 
crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it 
was one of the family who had signalized himself in the Holy 
Land, and the same whose picture hung over the fireplace in 
the hall. 

During service Master Simon stood up in the pew and re- 
peated the responses very audibly, evincing that kind of cere- 
monious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of the 
old school and a man of old family connections. I observed 
too that he turned over the leaves of a folio prayer-book with 
something of a flourish; possibly to show off an enormous 
seal ring which enriched one of his fingers, and which had 
the look of a family relic. But he was evidently most solici- 
tous about the musical part of the service, keeping his eye 
fijied intently on the choir, and beating time with much ges- 
ticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most 

' Here the parson is quite correct according to all authorities. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 61 

whimsical grouping of heads piled one above the other, among 
which I particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale 
fellow with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on 
the clarionet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point; 
and there was another, a short pursy man, stooping and la- 
boring at a bass-viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a 
round bald head, like the egg of an ostrich. There were two 
or three pretty faces among the female singers, to which the 
keen air of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint; 
but the gentlemen choristers had evidently been chosen, like 
old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks; and as sev- 
eral had to sing from the same book, there were clusterings 
of odd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we 
sometimes see on country tombstones.^ 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably 
well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the in- 
strumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then making 
up for lost time by traveling over a passage with prodigious 
celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest fox-hunter 
to be in at the death. But the great trial was an anthem that 
had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on 
which he had founded great expectation. Unluckily there 
was a blunder at the very outset ; the musicians became flur- 
ried ; Master Simon was in a fever ; everything went on lamely 
and irregularly until they came to a chorus beginning, " ISTow 
let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal for 
parting company. All became discord and confusion; each 
shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, as 
soon as he could, excepting one old chorister in a pair of horn 
spectacles bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose, who 
happened to stand a little apart, and being wrapped up in his 
own melody kept on a quavering course, wriggling his head, 

' For a picture of a country choir in at Thomas Hardy's Under the Greenwood 
modern England, the reader should look Tree- 



62 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

Ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at least 
three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and 
ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it 
not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing; sup- 
porting the correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages 
of the church, and enforcing them by the authorities of Theo- 
philus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augus- 
tine, and a cloud more of saints and fathers from whom he 
made- copious quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive 
the necessity of such a mighty array of forces to maintain a 
point which no one present seemed inclined to dispute; but I 
soon found that the good man had a legion of ideal adver- 
saries to contend with; having in the course of his researches 
on the subject of Christmas got completely embroiled in the 
sectarian controversies of the Revolution, when the Puritans 
made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the church, 
and poor old Christmas was driven out of the land by procla- 
mation of Parliament.^ The worthy parson lived but with 
times past, and knew but little of the present. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of 
his antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to 
him as the gazettes of the day ; while the era of the Eevolution 
was mere modern history. He forgot that nearly two cen- 
turies had elapsed since the fiery persecution of poor mince- 
pie ~ throughout the land ; when plum porridge was de- 
nounced as " mere popery," and roast-ibeef as anti-christian ; 

• From the Flying Eagle, a small ga- 7, 11 ; Mark xv. 8 ; Psalm Ixxxiv. 10, in 

zette, published December 24, 1652 :" The which Christmas is called Antichrist's 

House spent much time this day about the masse, and those Massemongers and Pa- 

bnsiness of the Navy, for settling the pists who observe it, etc. In consequence 

affairs at sea, and before they rose, were of which Parliament spent some time in 

presented with a terrible remonstrance consultation about the abolition of Christ- 

against Christmas day, grounded upon di- mas day, passed orders to that effect, and 

vine Scriptures, 3 Cor. v. 16 ; 1 Cor. xv. resolved to sit on the following day, which 

14, 17 ; and in honor of the Lord's Day, was commonly called Christmas day." — 

grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. Irving's Note. 
1 ; Rev. i. 10 ; Psalm cxviii. 24 ; Lev. xxiii. ^ Cf . p. 47 and note 8. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 63 

and that Christmas had been hrought in again triumphantly 
with the merry court of King Charles at the Eestoration. 
He kindled into warmth with the ardor of his contest, and 
the host of imaginary foes with whom he had to combat; he 
had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne ^ and two or three 
other forgotten champions of the Roundheads, on the subject 
of Christmas festivity; and concluded by urging his hearers 
in the most solemn and affecting manner to stand to the tra- 
ditional customs of their fathers, and feast and make merry 
on this Joyful anniversay of the Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with 
more immediate effects; for on leaving the church the con- 
gregation seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of 
spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks 
gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking 
hands ; and the children ran about crying " Ule ! Ule ! " and 
repeating some uncouth rhymes,^ which the parson, who had 
joined us, informed me had been handed down from days 
of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to the squire as he 
passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with every 
appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to 
the hall to take something to keep out the cold of the weather ; 
and I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, which 
convinced me that in the_midst of his enjoyments the worthy 
old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas virtue of 
charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed with 
generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising 
ground which commanded something of a prospect, the sounds 
of rustic merriment now and then reached our ears. The 
squire paused for a few moments, and looked around with 

1 William Prynne was a Btrong Puritan, * Ule I Ule 1 

who, in 1633, pablished a vigorous attack Three puddings in a pule 

against actors and stage plays, and many Crack nuts and cry ule I 

of the games of old England. — Irvinq's Note. 



64 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the day 
was of itself sufficient to inspire philanthropy. ]^otwith- 
standing the frostiness of the morning, the sun in his cloud- 
less journey had acquired sufficient power to melt away the 
thin covering of snow from every southern declivity, and to 
bring out the living green which adorns an English landscape 
even in mid-winter. Large tracts of smiling verdure con- 
trasted with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and 
hollows. Every sheltered bank on which the broad rays rested 
yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water glittering 
through the dripping grass, and sent up slight exhalations to 
contribute to the thin haze that hung just above the surface 
of the earth. There was something truly cheering in this 
triumph of warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of 
winter; it was, as the squire observed, an emblem of Christ- 
mas hospitality breaking through the chills of ceremony and 
selfishness and thawing every heart into a flow. He pointed 
with pleasure to the indications of good cheer reeking^ from 
the chimneys of the comfortable farmhouses and low thatched 
cottages. " I love," said he, " to see this day well kept by 
rich and poor ; it is a great thing to have one day in the year, 
at least, when you are sure of being welcome wherever you 
go, and of having, as it were, the world thrown all open to you ; 
and I am almost disposed to join with Poor Robin in his male- 
diction on every churlish enemy to this honest festival : 

Those who at Christmas do repine 
And would fain hence dispatch him, 

May they with old Duke Humphry dine. 
Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em. 

The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the 
games and amusements which were once prevalent at this 
season among the lower orders and countenanced by the 
higher; when the old halls of the castles and manor-houses 

> The word is here used, correctly, of smoke. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 65 

were thrown open at daylight; when the tables were covered 
with brawn and beef and humming ale; when the harp and 
the carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poor were 
alike welcome to enter and make merry.' " Our old games 
and local customs," said he, " had a great effect in making the 
peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of them by the 
gentry made him fond of his lord. They made the times mer- 
rier and kinder and better, and I can truly say, with one of 
our old poets : 

I like them well; the curious preciseness 

And all-pretended gravity of those 

That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 

Have thrust away much ancient honesty. 

" The nation," continued he, " is altered ; we have almost 
lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken 
asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their in- 
terests are separate. They have become too knowing, and 
begin to read newspapers, listen to ale-house politicians, and 
talk of reform. I think one mode to keep them in good hu- 
mor in these hard times would be for the nobility and gentry 
to pass more time on their estates, mingle more among the 
country people, and set the merry old English games going 
again." 

Such was the good squire's project for mitigating public 
discontent ; and indeed he had once attempted to put his doc- 
trine in practice, and a few years before had kept open house 
during the holidays in the old style. The country people, 
however, did not understand how to play their parts in the 
scene of hospitality; many uncouth circumstances occurred; 

1 " An English gentleman, at the open- cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) 

ing of the great day, i.e., on Christmas must be boiled by daybreak, or else two 

day in the morning, had all his tenants young men rnust take the maiden (i.e., the 

and neighbors enter his hall by daybreak. cook) by the arms, and run her round the 

The strong beer was broached, and the market-place till she is shamed of her lazi- 

blackjacks went plentifully about with ness.''— Bound about our Sea-Coal Fire. 
toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good Cheshire 

6 



66 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

the manor was overrun by all the vagrants of the country, and 
more beggars drawn into the neighborhood in one week than 
the parish officers could get rid of in a year. Since then he 
had contented himself with inviting the decent part of the 
neighboring peasantry to call at the hall on Christmas day, 
and with distributing beef and bread and ale among the poor, 
that they might make merry in their own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music was 
heard from a distance. A band of country lads without 
coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, their 
hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their hands, were 
seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a large number of 
villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall door, 
where the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads per- 
formed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreating, 
and striking their clubs together, keeping exact time to the 
music; while one, whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the 
tail of which flaunted down his back, kept capering round the 
skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas box with many 
antic gesticulations. 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest 
and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which 
he traced to the times when the Eomans held possession of the 
island; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of 
the sword dance of the ancients. " It was now," he said, 
" nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it 
in the neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival; though, 
to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by the rough 
cudgel play, and broken heads in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was enter- 
tained with brawn and beef and stout home-brewed. The 
squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was received 
with awkward demonstrations of deference and regard. It 
is true I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as 
they were raising their tankards to their mouths when the 



CHRISTMAS DAY 67 

squire's back was turned, making something of a grimace and 
giving each other the wink; but the moment they caught 
my eye they pulled grave faces, and were exceedingly demure. 
With Master Simon, however, they all seemed more at their 
ease. His varied occupations and amusements had made 
him well known throughout the neighborhood. He was a 
visitor at every farmhouse and cottage, gossiped with the 
farmers and their wives, romped with their daughters, and 
like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the bumblebee, tolled ^ 
the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good 
cheer and affability. There is som^ething genuine and af- 
fectionate in the gayety of the lower orders when it is excited 
by the bounty and -familiarity of those above them ; the warm 
glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind word or 
a small pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron gladdens the 
heart of the dependent more than oil and wine. When the 
squire had retired, the merriment increased, and there was 
much Joking and laughter, particularly between Master Si-' 
mon and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer, who ap- 
peared to be the wit of the village ; for I observed all his com- 
panions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst 
into a gratuitous laugh before they could well understand 
them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment; 
as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound 
of music in a small court, and looking through a window that 
commanded it, I perceived a band of wandering musicians, 
with pandean pipes and tambourine; a pretty coquettish 
housemaid was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while 
several of the other servants were looking on. In the midst 
of her sport the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the win- 
dow, and, coloring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected 
confusion. 

J took toll of. 



68 THE SKETCH-BOOK 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 

Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast! 

Let every man be jolly. 
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke, 

And Christmas blocks are burning; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 

Without the door let sorrow lie. 
And if, for cold, it hap to die 
Wee'le bury 't in a Christmas pye, 
And evermore be merry. 

Wither 's Juvenilia.i 

I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank 
Bracebridge in the library, when we heard a distant thwack- 
ing sound, which he informed me was a signal for the serv- 
ing up of the dinner. The squire kept up old customs in 
kitchen as well as hall; and the rolling-pin struck upon the 
dresser by the cook summoned the servants to carry in the 

meats. 

Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice. 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey; 
Each serving-man, with dish in hand, 
March'd boldly up, like our train band. 

Presented, and away.* 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the squire 
always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing, crackling 
fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious apart- 
ment, and the flame went sparkling and wreathing up the 

> George Wither, 1588-1667, wrote much "A Christmas Carol." 

poetry, but his best was inchided in the ^ From "A Ballad of a Wedding," by 

collection called Juvenilin, written dur- Sir John Suckling, one of the Cavalier 

ing his youth. This is from one called Poets of the 17th century. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 69 

wide-onouthed chimney. The great picture of the crusader 
and his white horse had been profusely decorated with greens 
for the occasion ; and holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed 
round the helmet and weapons on the opposite wall, which I 
understood were the arms of the same warrior. I must own, 
by the by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity of the 
painting and armor as having belonged to the crusader, they 
certainly having the stamp of more recent days; but I was 
told that the painting had been so considered time out of 
mind ; and that, as to the armor, it had been found in a lum- 
ber room and elevated to its present situation by the squire, 
who at once determined it to be the armor of the family hero ; 
and as he was absolute authority on all such subjects in his 
own household, the matter had passed into current accepta- 
tion. A sideboard was set out just under this chivalric 
trophy, on which was a display of plate that might have vied 
(at least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade of the vessels 
of the temple ; " flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, 
and ewers," the gorgeous utensils of good companionship that 
had gradually accumulated through many generations of jo- 
vial housekeepers. Before these stood two Yule candles beam- 
ing like two stars of the first magnitude; other lights were 
distributed in branches, and the whole array glittered like a 
firmament of silver. 

We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound 
of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a stool beside the 
fireplace, and twanging his instrument with a vast deal more 
power than melody. Never did Christmas board display a 
more goodly and gracious assemblage of countenances; those 
who were not handsome were at least happy; and happiness 
is a rare improver of your hard-favored visage.- I always 
consider an old English family as well worth studying as a 
collection of Holbein's ^ portraits or Albert Diirer's ^ prints. 

' Hans Holbein, the younger (1497-1543), and women of the 16th century are most 
was a German artist of great genius in interesting, 
portraiture : his drawings of English men » Albert Dtlrer (1471-1538) was one of 



70 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

There is much antiquarian lore to be acquired; much knowl- 
edge of the physiognomies of former times. Perhaps it may 
be from having continually before their eyes those rows of old 
family portraits with which the mansions of this country are 
stocked ; certain it is that the quaint features of antiquity are 
often most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient lines; and 
I have traced an old family nose through a whole picture 
gallery, legitimately handed down from generation to genera- 
tion^ almost from the time of the Conquest. Something of 
the kind was to be o'bserved in the worthy company around 
me. Many of their faces had evidently originated in a Gothic 
age, and been merely copied by succeeding generations; and 
there was one little girl in particular, of staid demeanor, with 
a high Eoman nose and an antique vinegar aspect, who was a 
great favorite of the squire's, being, as he said, a Bracebridge 
all over, and the very counterpart of one of his ancestors who 
figured in the court of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar one, 
such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these uncere- 
monious days, but a long, courtly, well-worded one of the 
ancient school. There was now a pause, as if something was 
expected, when suddenly the butler entered the hall with some 
degree of bustle; he was attended by a servant on each side 
with a large waxlight, and bore a silver dish on which was an 
enormous pig's head decorated with rosemary, with a lemon 
in its mouth, which was placed with great formality at the 
head of the table. The moment this pageant made its ap- 
pearance, the harper struck up a flourish; at the conclusion 
of which the young Oxonian, ©n receiving a hint from the 
squire, gave, with an air of the most comic gravity, an old 
carol, the first verse of which was as follows : 

Caput apri defero 
Reddens laudes Domino. 

the most famous of German artists : his chief works are etchings and engrav- 
ings. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 71 

Tlie boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all synge merrily 
Qui estis in convivio.^ 

Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentrici- 
ties, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host, 
yet I confess the parade with which so odd a dish was intro- 
duced somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered froon the con- 
versation of the squire and the parson that it was meant to 
represent the bringing in of the boar's head, a dish formerly 
served up with much ceremony and the sound of minstrelsy 
and song, at great talbles on Christmas day. " I like the old 
custom," said the squire, " not merely because it is stately 
and pleasing in itself, but because it was observed at the col- 
lege at Oxford at which I was educated. When I hear the old 
song chanted, it brings to mind the time when I was young 
and gamesome — and the noble old college hall — and my fel- 
low-students loitering about in their black gowns; many of 
whom, poor lads, are now in their graves ! " 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such 
associations, and who was always more taken up with the text 
than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version of the 
carol, which he affirmed was different from that sang at col- 
lege. He went on, with the dry perseverance of a commenta- 
tor, to give the college reading, accompanied by sundry an- 
notations, addressing himself at first to the company at large ; 
but finding their attention gradually diverted to other talk 
and other objects, he lowered his tone as his number of audi- 
tors diminished, until he concluded his remarks in an under 
voice to a fat-headed old gentleman next him, who was 
silently engaged in the discussion of a huge plateful of 
turkey.^ 

' See the note on p. 72 for the whole "you all") "who are at the banquet." 

song. The Latin may be translated " The " The old ceremony of serving up the 

boar's head I bring, returning thanks to boar's head on Christmas day is still ob- 

the Lord ; " and the last line (following served in the hall of Queen's College, Ox- 



72 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

The table was literall}' loaded with good cheer, and pre- 
sented an epitome of country abundance in this season of 
overflowing larders. A distinguished post was allotted to 
" ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it ; being, as he added, 
" the standard of old English hospitality, and a joint of goodly 
presence, and full of expectation." There were several dishes 
quaintly decorated, and which had evidently something tra- 
ditional in their embellishments; but about which, as I did 
not like to appear over-curious, I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently deco- 
rated with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the tail of that 
bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. 
This, the squire confessed with some little hesitation, was a 
pheasant pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most 
authentical; but there had been such a mortality among the 
peacocks this season that he could not prevail upon himself 
to have one killed.^ 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may 
not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to 
which I am a little given, were I to mention the other make- 
ford. I was favored by the parson with a times it was made into a pie, at one end of 
copy of the carol as now sung, and as it which the head appeared above the crust 
may be acceptable to such of my readers in all its plumage, with the beak richly 
as are curious in these grave and learned gilt ; at the other end the tail was dis- 
matters, I give it entire. played. Such pies were served up at the 

The boar's head in hand bear I, solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights- 

Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; errant pledged themselves to undertake 

Xteis^in c"/v"ir"' '^ "'"' any perilous enterprise, whence came the 

Caput apri defero, ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, " by 

Reddens laudes I)omino. cock and pie." 

The boar's head, as I understand, The peacock was also an important dish 

Is the rarest dish in all this land, j ^j^ Christmas feast ; and Massinger, 

Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland . ,. ^ ,, , . ., ,°., 

Let us servire cantico. i° bis City Madam, gives some idea of the 

Caput apri defero, etc. extravagance with which this, as well as 

Our steward hath provided this other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous 

In honor of the King of Bliss, revels of the olden times : 

Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. Men may talk of Country Christmasses, 

Caput apri defero. Their thirty ))ound butter'd eggs, their 

etc., etc., etc. pies of carps' tongues ; 

— Irving's Note. Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris ; 

the carcass of three fat wethers hruimd 
1 The peacock was anciently in great de- j^?. g^avy to make sauce for a single 

mand for stately entertainments. Some- peacock. — Ikving's Note. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 73 

shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which he was endeavor- 
ing to follow up, though at humble distance, the quaint cus- 
toms of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the respect 
shown to his whims by his children and relatives, who, in- 
deed, entered readily into the full spirit of them, and seemed 
all well versed in their parts, having doubtless been present 
at many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of pro- 
found gravity with which the butler and other servants ex- 
ecuted the duties assigned them, however eccentric. They 
had an old-fashioned look, — having, for the most part, been 
brought up in the household, and grown into keeping with the 
antiquated mansion and the humors of its lord, — and most 
probably looked upon all his whimsical regulations as the 
established laws of honorable housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge 
silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed 
Ijefore the squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclama- 
tion, being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas fes- 
tivity. The contents had been prepared by the squire him- 
self; for it was a beverage in the skilful mixture of which 
he particularly prided himself, alleging that it was too ab- 
struse and complex for the comprehension of an ordinary 
servant. It was a potation, indeed, that might well make 
the heart of a toper leap within him, being composed of the 
richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with 
roasted apples bobbing about the surface.^ 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a 
serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty 
bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a 

1 The Wassail Bowl was sometimes com- and is celebrated by Herrick in his Twelfth 

posed of ale instead of wine, with nutmeg, Night : 

sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs ; in jjext crowne the bowle full 

this way the nut-brown beverage is still W^ith gentle Lamb's Wool ; 

prepared in some old families, and round ^l^-!!'^''/' nutpeg, and ginger, 

^ ^ „ , . , , With store of ale too ; 

the hearths of substantial farmers at ^jj,j \h.ws, ye must doe 

Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, To make the Wassaile a swinger. 

— Irving's Note. 



74 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brimming round 
the board for every one to follow his example, according to 
the primitive style — pronouncing it " the ancient fountain of 
good feeling, where all hearts met together." ^ 

There was much laughing and rallying as the honest em- 
blem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather 
coyly by the ladies. When it reached Master Simon, he raised 
it in both hands, and with the air of a boon companion struck 
up an old Wassail chanson. 

The brown bowle 

The merry brown bowle, 

As it goes round about-a. 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will. 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

The deep canne, 

The merry deep canne. 

As thou dost freely quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a.' 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family 
topics to which I was a stranger. There was, however, a 
great deal of rallying of Master Simon about some gay widow, 
with whom he was accused of having a flirtation. This at- 
tack was commenced by the ladies; but it was continued 
throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old gentleman next 
the parson, with the persevering assiduity of a slow hound; 
being one of those long-winded jokers who, though rather dull 

> "The custom of drinking out of the times, Wa^sel, Wassel, Wassel, and then 

same cup gave place to each having his the chappell (chaplein) was to answer with 

cup. When the steward came to the doore a song." — Irving's Note. 

with the Wassel, he was to cry three ' From Poor Bobin's Almanac. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 75 

at starting game, are unrivalled for their talents in hunting 
it down. At every pause in the general conversation he re- 
newed his bantering in pretty much the same terms, winking 
hard at me with both eyes whenever he gave Master Simon 
what he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed 
fond of being teased on the subject, as old bachelors are apt 
to be; and he took occasion to inform me, in an undertone, 
that the lady in question was a prodigiously fine woman and 
drove her own curricle. 

The dinner-time .passed away in this flow of innocent 
hilarity, and though the old hall may have resounded in its 
time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt 
whether it ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoy- 
ment. How easy it is for one benevolent being to diffuse 
pleasure around him ; and how truly is a kind heart a fountain 
of gladness, making everything in its vicinity to freshen into 
smiles ! The joyous disposition of the worthy squire was per- 
fectly contagious ; he was happy himself, and disposed to make 
all the world happy ; and the little eccentricities of his humor 
did but season, in a manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, be- 
came still more animated; many good things were broached 
which had been thought of during dinner, and though I can- 
not positively affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I 
have certainly heard many contests of rare wit produce much 
less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent in- 
gredient, and much 'too acid for some stomachs; but honest 
good humor is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there 
is no jovial companionship equal to that where the jokes are 
rather small and the laughter abundant. 

The squire told several long stories of early college pranks 
and adventures, in some of which the parson had been a 
sharer ; though in looking at the latter it required some effort 
of imagination to figure such a ttttle, dark anatomy ^ of a man 

1 in the older meaning of " slseleton.'" 



76 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

into the perpetrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the two 
college chums presented pictures of what men may be made 
by their different lots in life. The squire had left the uni- 
versity to live lustily on his paternal domains, in the vigorous 
enjoyment of prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished on 
to a hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor parson, on the 
contrary, had dried and withered away, among dusty tomes, 
in the silence and shadows of his study. Still there seemed 
to be a spark of almost extinguished fire feebly glimmering 
in the bottom of his soul; and as the squire hinted at a sly 
story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid, whom they once 
met on the banks of the Isis, the old gentleman made an 
" alphabet of faces," which, as far as I could decipher his 
physiognomy, I verily believe was indicative of laughter; — 
indeed, I have rarely met with an old gentleman that took ab- 
solute offence at the imputed gallantries of his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the 
dry land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier and 
louder as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as 
chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew; his old 
songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to talk 
maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song about 
the wooing of a widow, which he informed me he had gath- 
ered from an excellent black-letter work, entitled Cupid's 
Solicitor for Love, containing store of good advice for bache- 
lors, and which he promised to lend me. The first verse was 
to this effect: 

He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
He must make hay while the sun doth shine; 

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
But boldly say, " Widow, thou must be mine." 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made 
several attempts to tell a rathffl- broad story out of Joe Miller, 
that was pat to the purpose; but he always stuck in the 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 77 

middle, everybody recollecting the latter part excepting him- 
self. The parson, too, began to show the effects of good cheer, 
having gradually settled down into a doze, and his wig sitting 
most suspiciously on one side. Just at this juncture we were 
summoned to the drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the private 
instigation of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tem- 
pered with a proper love of decorum. 

After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given up to 
the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind 
of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made its 
old walls ring with their merriment, as they played at romp- 
ing games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of children, 
and particularly at this happy holiday season, and could not 
help stealing out of the drawing-room on hearing one of their 
peals of laughter. I found them at the game of blindman's- 
buff. Master Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and 
seemed on all occasions to fulfil the office of that ancient po- 
tentate, the Lord of Misrule,^ was blinded in the midst of the 
hall. The little beings were as busy about him as the mock 
fairies about Falstaff ; ^ pinching him, plucking at the skirts 
of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One fine blue- 
eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in beauti- 
ful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock half torn 
off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was the chief 
tormentor; and, from the slyness with which Master Simon 
avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph 
in cor-ners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I 
suspected the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than 
was convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the com- 
pany seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was 
deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of 

1 AtChristmaBsetherewasintheKinge's nobleman of honor, or good worshippe, 

house, wheresoever hee was lodged, a lorde were he spirituall or temporall. — Stowe. 
of misrule, or mayster of merle disportes, ^ in The Merry Wives of Windsor, 

and the like had ye in the house of every V, v. 



78 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

some cunning artificer of yore, which had been brought from 
the library for his particular accommodation. From this 
venerable piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure 
and dark weazen face so admirably accorded, he was dealing- 
out strange accounts of the popular superstitions and legends 
of the surrounding country, with which he had become ac- 
quainted in the course of his antiquarian researches. I am 
half inclined to think that the old gentleman was himself 
somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men are very apt 
to be who live a recluse and studious life in a sequestered part 
of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled 
with the marvellous and supernatural. He gave us several 
anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry con- 
cerning the effigy of the crusader which lay on the tomb by 
the church altar. As it was the only monument of the kind 
in that part of the country, it had always been regarded with 
feelings of superstition by the good wives of the village. It 
was said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of the 
churchyard in stormy nights, particularly when it thundered ; 
and one old woman, whose cottage bordered on the church- 
yard, had seen it through the windows of the church when the 
moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was 
the belief that some wrong had been left unredressed by the 
deceased, or some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a 
state of trouble and restlessness. Some talked of gold and 
jewels buried in the tomb, over which the spectre kept watch ; 
and there was a story current of a sexton in old times who en- 
deavored to break his way to the coffin at night, but, just as 
he reached it, received a violent blow from the marble hand of 
the effigy, which stretched him senseless on the pavement. 
These tales were often laughed at by some of the sturdier 
among the rustics, yet, when night came on, there were many 
of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of venturing alone 
in the footpath that led across the churchyard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 79 

appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories throughout 
the vicinity. His picture^ which hung up in the hall, was 
thought by the servants to have something supernatural about 
it; for they remarked that in whatever part of the hall you 
went, the eyes of the warrior were still fixed on you. The 
old porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who had been born and 
brought up in the family, and was a great gossip among the 
maid servants, affirmed that in her young days she had often 
heard say that on Midsummer eve, when it was well known 
all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies become visible and 
walk abroad, the crusader used to mount his horse, come 
down from his picture, ride about the house, down the ave- 
nue, and so to the church to visit the tomb; on which occa- 
sion the church door most civilly swung open of itself; not 
that he needed it, for he rode through closed gates and even 
stone walls, and had been seen by one of the dairymaids to 
pass between two bars of the great park gate, making himself 
as thin as a sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much coun- 
tenanced by the squire, who, though not superstitious himself, 
was very fond of seeing others so. He listened to every gob- 
lin tale of the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, and 
held the porter's wife in high favor on account of her talent 
for the marvellous. He was himself a great reader of old 
legends and romances, and often lamented that he could not 
believe in them; for a superstitious person^ he thought, must 
live in a kind of fairyland. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our ears 
were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds 
from the hall, in which were mingled something like the clang 
of rude minstrelsy with the uproar of many small voices and 
girlish laughter. The door suddenly flew open, and a train 
came trooping into the room that might almost have been mis- 
taken for the breaking up of the court of Fairy. That in- 
defatigable spirit. Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of 



80 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

his duties as Lord of Misrule, had conceived the idea of a 
Christmas mummery, or masking ; and having called in to his 
assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, who were equally 
ripe for anything that should occasion romping and merri- 
ment, they had carried it into instant effect. The old house- 
keeper had been consulted; the antique clothespresses and 
wardrobes rummaged, and made to yield up the relics of finery 
that had not seen the light for several generations; the 
younger part of the company had been privately convened 
from the parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened 
out into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask.^ 

Master Simon led the van, as Ancient Christmas, quaintly 
apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak which had very much the 
aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat 
that might have served for a village steeple, and must in- 
dubitably have figured in the days of the Covenanters.^ From 
under this his nose curved boldly forth, flushed with a frost- 
bitten bloom that seemed the very trophy of a December blast. 
He was accompanied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up as 
Dame Mince Pie, in the venerable magnificence of a faded 
brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. 
The young officer appeared as Eobin Hood,^ in a sporting 
dress of Kendal Green, and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep 
research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, 
natural to a young gallant in the presence of his mistress. 
The fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress as 
Maid Marian. The rest of the train had been metamorphosed 
in various ways ; the girls trussed up in the finery of the an- 
cient belles of the Bracebridge line, and the striplings be- 

' Maskings, or mummeries, were favor- Masque of Christmas. —lnvitiG. 
ite sports at Christmas in old times ; and 2 The Scotch Presbyterians, who were 
the wardrobes at halls and manor houses adherents to the Solemn League and Cove- 
were often laid under contribution to fur- nant, 1638. 

nish dresses and fantastic disguisings. I ^ Robin Hood and Maid Marian are two 

strongly suspect Master Simon to have of the most famous of England's legendary 

taken the idea of his from Ben Jonson's characters. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 81 

whiskered with burnt corkj and gravely clad in broad skirts, 
hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent the 
character of Eoast Beef, Plum-pudding, and other worthies 
celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole was under the 
control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Mis- 
rule; and I observed that he exercised rather a mischievous 
sway with his wand over the smaller personages of the pag- 
eant. 

The irruption of this motley crew with beat of drum, ac- 
cording to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar 
and merriment. Master Simon covered himself with glory 
by the stateliness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he 
walked a minuet with the peerless, though giggling. Dame 
Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance of all the characters, 
which from its medley of costumes seemed as though the old 
family portraits had skipped down from their frames to join 
in the sport. Different centuries were figuring at cross hands 
and right and left; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and 
rigadoons; and the days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down 
the middle, through a line of succeeding generations. 

The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports and 
this resurrection of his old wardrobe with the simple relish 
of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his 
hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, notwith- 
standing that the latter was discoursing most authentically on 
the ancient and stately dance of the Pavon, or peacock, from 
which he conceived the minuet to be derived.^ For my part, 
I was in a continual excitement from the varied scenes of 
whim and innocent gayety passing before me. It was inspir- 
ing to see wild-eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality 
breaking out from among the chills and glooms of winter, 

> Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the swords, by those of the long robe in their 

dance called the Pavon, from pavo, a pea- gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and 

cock, says: "It is a grave and majestic by the ladies in gowns with long trains, 

dance ; the method of dancing it anciently the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled 

was by gentlemen dressed with caps and that «f a peacock."— /^is^ory of Music. 
6 



82 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

and old age throwing off his apathy and catching once more 
the freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest 
in the scene from the consideration that these fleeting ens-- 
toms were posting fast into oblivion, and that this was, per- 
haps, the only family in England in which the whole of them 
was still punctiliously observed. There was a quaintness, 
too, mingled with all this revelry that gave it a peculiar zest; 
it was suited to the tims and place; and as the old manor 
house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing 
back the joviality of long departed years.^ 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols; it is time for 
me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the questions 
asked by my graver readers, " To what purpose is all this — 
how is the world to be made wiser by this talk ? " Alas ! is 
there not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the 
world? And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens 
laboring for its improvement? — It is so much pleasanter to 
please than to instruct — to play the companion rather than 
the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw 
into the mass of knowledge; or how am I sure that my sagest 
deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others? 
But in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my own 
disappointment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in 
these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, 
or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow ; if I can 
now and then penetrate through the gathering film of mis- 
anthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and 
make my reader more in good humor with his fellow-beings 
and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written en- 
tirely in vain. 

I At the time of the first publication of existing in unexpected vigor in the skirts 

this paper, the picture of an old-fashioned of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he 

Christmas in the country w as pronounced passed the Christmas holidays. The reader 

by gome as out of date. The author had will find gome notice of them in the au- 

afterwards an opportunity of witnessing thoi-'s account of his sojourn at Newstead 

almost all the customs above described. Abbey. — Irving. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 83 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 
Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream; 
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 
For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. 

GrARKICK.l 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world 
which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling 
of something like independence and territorial consequence, 
when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts 
his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn 
fire. Let the world without go as it may, let kingdoms rise 
or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he 
is for the time being the very monarch of all he surveys. The 
arm-chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little 
parlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It 
is a morsel of certainty snatched from the midst of the un- 
certainties of life, it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly 
on a cloudy day; and he who has advanced some way on the 
pilgrimage of existence knows the importance of husbanding 
even morsels and moments of enjoyment. " Shall I not take 
mine ease in mine inn ? " thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, 
lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look 
about the little parlor of the Eed Horse at Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakespeare ^ were just passing through 
my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the 
church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at 
the door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling 
face, inquired with a hesitating air whether I had rung. I 

> David Garrick (1716-1779) was the speare Jubilee of 1769. 

most famous Shalcespearean actor of the " The words just quoted are Falstaff's, 

18th century. These lines are from his in 1, Henry IV., IH, iii, 78. 
ode to Shakespeare recited at the Shake- 



84 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My 
dream of absolute dominion was at an end; so abdicating my 
throne like a prudent potentate to avoid being deposed, and 
putting the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm as a pillow 
companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shake- 
speare, the Jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings 
which we sometimes have in early spring, for it was about 
the middle of March. The chills of a long winter had sud- 
denly given way, the north wind had spent its last gasp, and 
a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath 
of life into nature and wooing every bud and flower to burst 
forth into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first 
visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born,^ and 
where, according to tradition, he was brought up to his fa- 
ther's craft of wool-combing. It is a small, mean-looking 
edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, 
which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in by-cor- 
ners. The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with 
names and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all 
nations, ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the peasant, 
and present a simple but striking instance of the spontaneous 
and universal homage of mankind to the great poet of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady in a frosty red 
face lighted up by a cold blue, anxious eye, and garnished 
with artificial locks of flaxen hair curling from under an ex- 
ceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibit- 
ing the relics with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, 
abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very match- 
lock - with which Shakespeare shot the deer on his poaching 
exploits. There, too, was his tobacco box, which proves that 

» This house on Henley St., Stratford, to the town of Stratford, 

was long Inhabited by descendants of the * The matchlock was the form of musket 

poet's sister, but in 1846 was converted into in use before the flintlock, which preceded 

a public museum and afterwards presented the use of percussion caps and cartridges. 



STKATFORD-ON-AVON 85 

he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Ealeigh; the sword also 
with which he played Hamlet ; ^ and the identical lantern with 
which Friar Laurence discovered Eomeo and Juliet at the 
tomb ! There was an ample supply also of Shakespeare's 
mulberry tree, which seems to have as extraordinary powers 
of self-multiplication as the wood of the true cross, of which 
there is enough extant to build a ship of the line.^ 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shake- 
speare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small 
gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. 
Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching the 
slowly revolving spit with all the longing of an urchin, or 
of an evening listening to the cronies and gossips of Stratford 
dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the 
troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the custom 
of every one that visits the house to sit, — whether this be 
done with the hope o-f imbibing any of the inspiration of the 
bard I am at a loss to say, I merely mention the fact, — and 
mine hostess privately assured me that, though built of solid 
oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees that the chair had 
to be new bottomed at least once in three years. It is worthy 
of notice also, in the history of this extraordinary chair, that 
it partakes something of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa 
of Loretto ^ or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter ; * 
for though sold some few years since to a northern princess, 
yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old 
chimney corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever 
willing to be deceived where the deceit is pleasant and costs 

> The tradition now is that Shakespeare which was short for " line of battle." 

played the Ghost in his great tragedy. ' The famous shrine at Loretto, reputed 

Irving's account of these relics, however, to be the veritable house of the Virgin, 

is humorous ; as he says later he is " of transported by angels from Nazareth, and 

easy faith in such matters." miraculously set down in Italy on Decem- 

^ Before steam became an important ele- ber 10, 1294. 

ment in shipbuilding, the largest meu-of- * It is generally called a flying carpet in 

war were called " ships of the line," the Arabian Nights. 



86 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, 
and local anecdotes of goblins and great men, and would ad- 
vise all travelers who travel for their gratification to be the 
same.^ What is it to us whether these stories be true or false, 
so long as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them 
and enjoy all the charm of the reality? There is nothing 
like resolute, good-humored credulity in these matters; and 
on this occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the 
claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, 
luckily for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own 
composition which set all belief in her consanguinity at de- 
fiance. 

From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces brought 
me to his grave. He lies buried in the. chancel of the parish 
church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but 
richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on 
an embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens 
from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and re- 
tired; the river runs murmuring at the foot of the church- 
yard, and the elms which grow upon its banks droop their 
branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the 
boughs of which are curiously interlaced so as to form in 
summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of 
the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown with 
grass; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the 
earth, are half covered with moss, which has likewise tinted 
the reverend old building. Small birds have built their nests 
among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a 
continual flutter and chirping, and rooks are sailing and caw- 
ing about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed 
sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the key 
of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for 

• This is part of the humor that gives ns man of Sleepy Hollow, and the many 
Rip Van Winkle, The Headless Horse- Knickerbocker legends. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 87 

eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous 
man, with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use 
of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage 
looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows, and 
was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort which per- 
vade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low white- 
washed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for 
parlor, kitchen, and hall. Eows of pewter and earthen dishes 
glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well 
rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible and prayer-book, and 
the drawer contained the family library, composed of about 
half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, 
that important article of cottage furniture, ticked on the op- 
posite side of the room, with a bright warming-pan hanging 
on one side of it, and the old man's horn-handled Sunday cane 
on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was wide and deep 
enough to admit a gossip knot within its Jambs. In one 
corner sat the old man's granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue- 
eyed girl; and in the opposite corner was a superannuated 
crony whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, 
I found, had been' his companion from childhood. They had 
played together in infancy ; they had worked together in man- 
hood; they were now tottering ajbout and gossiping away the 
evening of life; and in a short time they will probably be 
buried together in the neighboring churchyard. It is not 
often that we see two streams of existence running thus evenly 
and tranquilly side by side ; it is only in such quiet " bosom 
scenes " of life that they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the 
bard from these ancient chroniclers, but they had nothing new 
to impart. The long interval during which Shakespeare's 
writings lay in comparative neglect ^ has spread its shadow 
over his history, and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely any- 

> It was the opinion of living's day, speare had been very little cared for during 
without very good ground, that Shake- the century between 1650 and 1750. 



88 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

thing remains to his hiographers but a scanty handful of con- 
jectures.^ 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as car- 
penters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford Ju- 
bilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the 
fete, who superintended the arrangements, and who, accord- 
ing to the sexton, was " a short punch " man, very lively and 
bustling." John Ange had assisted also in cutting down 
Shakespeare's mulberry tree, of which he had a morsel in his 
pocket for sale, no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary 
conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very 
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakespeare 
house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her 
valuable collection of relics, particularly her remains of the 
mulberry tree; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as 
to Shakespeare having been born in her house. I soon dis- 
covered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye as 
a rival to the poet's tomb, the latter having comparatively but 
few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very 
outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge 
into different channels even at the fountain head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, 
and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with 
carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and 
the architecture and embellishments superior to those of most 
country churches. There are several ancient monuments of 
nobility and gentry, over some of which hang funeral es- 
cutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. 
The tomb of Shakespeare is in the chancel. The place is 
solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed 
windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from 

* Since Irving's day much has been by Mr. Sidney Lee. 
found out of the facts of Shaliespeare's ^ a provincial English word for " short 

life, as may be seen in the life of the poet and stout." 



STRATFORD-ON AVON 89 

the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone 
marks the spot where the bard is buried. There are four 
lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, 
and which have in them something extremely awful. If they 
are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet 
of the grave which seems natural to fine sensibilities and 
thoughtful minds. 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 
To dig the dust enclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones. 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of 
Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered 
as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a 
finely arched forehead, and I thought I could read in it clear 
indications of that cheerful, social disposition by which he 
was as much characterized among his contemporaries as by 
the vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age 
at the time of his decease, — fifty-three years, — an untimely 
death for the world; for what fruit might not have been ex- 
pected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as 
it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing 
in the sunshine of popular and royal favor.^ 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its 
effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the 
bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at 
one time contemplated. A few years since, also, as some 
laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth 
caved in so as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, 
through which one might have reached into his grave. No 
one, however, presumed to meddle with his remains so awfully 
guarded by a malediction ; and lest any of the idle or the curi- 

1 It must be remembered, however, that had left London for Stratford some years 
Shakespeare had ceased to write plays, and before his death. 



90 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

ous, or any collector of relics, should be tempted to commit 
depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the place for two 
days, until the vault was finished and the aperture closed 
again. He told me that he had made bold to look in at the 
hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones — nothing but dust. 
It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shake- 
speare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite 
daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb 
close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend, John 
Combe of usurious memory, on whom he is said to have 
written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments 
around, but the mind refuses to dwell on anything that is not 
connected with Shakespeare. His idea pervades the place, the 
whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no 
longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in per- 
fect confidence; other traces of him may be false or dubious, 
but here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I 
trod the sounding pavement, there was something intense and 
thrilling in the idea that in very truth the remains of Shake- 
speare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long time 
before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place; and as 
I passed through the churchyard I plucked a branch from one 
of the yew trees, the only relic that I have brought from Strat- 
ford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, 
but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys, at 
Charlecote, and to ramhlc through the park where Shake- 
speare, in company with some of the roysters of Stratford, 
committed his youthful offence of deer-stealing. In this 
hairbrained exploit we are told that he was taken prisoner 
and carried to the keeper's lodge, where he remained all night 
in doleful captivity. When brought into the presence of Sir 
Thomas Lucy his treatment must have been galling and hu- 
miliating, for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce -a 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 91 

rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the park gate at Char- 
lecote. 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so 
incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put 
the severity of the laws in 'force against the rhyming deer- 
stalker. Shakespeare did not wait to hrave the united puis- 
sance of a knight of the shire and a country attorney. He 
forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon and his 
paternal trade, wandered away to London, became a hanger-on 
to the theatres, then an actor, and finally wrote for the stage ; 
and thus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Strat- 
ford lost an indifferent wool-comber, and the world gained an 
immortal poet. He retained, however, for a long time, a 
sense of the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecote, and 
revenged himself in his writings, but in the sportive way of 
a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the original 
Justice Shallow,^ and the satire is slyly fixed upon him by 
the justice's armorial bearings, which, like those of the knight, 
had white luces ^ in the quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to 
soften and explain away this early transgression of the poet; 
but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural 
to his situation and turn of mind. Shakespeare, when young, 
had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, 
undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic tempera- 
ment has naturally something in it of the vagabond. When 
left to itself it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in every- 
thing eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, 
in the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall 
turn out a great jogue or a great poet; and had not Shake- 
speare's mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have 
as daringly transcended all civil, as he bas all dramatic laws.^ 

1 See 2 Henry IV. ^ This expresses a very common idea of 

2 The luce is a pilie or jack, and abounds Irving's day, namely that Shakespeare dis- 
in the Avon about Charlecote. regarded the laws and customs of the 



92 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

I have little doubt that in early life, when running, like 
an unbroken colt about the neighborhood of Stratford, he was 
to be found in the company of all kinds of odd anomalous 
characters; that he associated with all the madcaps of the 
place, and was one of those unlucky urchins at mention of 
whom old men shake their heads, and predict that they will 
one day come to thfe gallows. To him the poaching in Sir 
Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish 
knight, and struck his eager and as yet untamed imagination 
as something delightfully adventurous.^ 

The old mansion of Charlecote and its surrounding park 
still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are 
peculiarly interesting from being connected with this whim- 
sical but eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the 
bard. As the house stood but little more than three miles' 
distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, 
that I might stroll leisurely through some of those scenes 

drama. It is true that his plays are not will think beer," was as true to his ale as 

like older plays, but they are not unlike Falstaff tohissack. The chivalry of Strat- 

the other plays of his time. A statement ford was staggered at the first onset, and 

truer than the idea of the text would be sounded a retreat while they had yet legs 

that Shakespeare and the dramatists of his to carry them off the field. They had 

time made a series of dramatic laws and scarcely marched a mile when, their legs 

principles for themselves and observed failing them, they were forced to lie down 

them fairly well. under a crab tree, where they passed the 

1 A proof of Shakespeare's random hab- night. It is still standing, and goes by the 
its and associates in his youthful days may name of Shakespeare's tree, 
be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked In the morning his companions awaked 
up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and the bard, and proposed returning to Bed- 
mentioned in his Picturesque Views on the ford, but he declined, saying he had had 
Avon. enough, having drank with 

About seven miles from Stratford lies pjpj^g Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 

the thirsty little market town of Bedford, Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 

famous for its ale. Two societies of the Dudging Eshall, Papist Wicksford, 

village yeomanry used to meet, under the Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford, 

appellation of the "Bedford topers," and "The villages here alluded to," says 

to challenge the lovers of good ale of the Ireland, "still bear the epithets thus given 

neighboring villages to a contest of drink- them ; the people of Pebworth are still 

ing. Among others, the people of Strat- famedfortheir skill on the pipe and tabor ; 

ford were called out to prove the strength Hilborough is now called ' Haunted Hil. 

of their heads, and in the number of the borough,' and Grafton is famous for the 

champions was Shakespeare, who, in spite poverty of its soil." 
of the proverb that " they who drink beer — Ibving's Note. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 93 

from which Shakespeare must have derived his earliest ideas 
of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless, but English scenery 
is always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature 
of the weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon 
the landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness 
this first awakening of spring, to feel its warm breath stealing 
over the senses, to see the moist mellow earth beginning to 
put forth the green sprout and the tender blade, and the trees 
and shrubs in their reviving tints and bursting buds giving 
the promise of returning foliage and flower. The cold snow- 
drop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be 
seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens be- 
fore the cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was 
faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow twittered about 
the thatched eaves and budding hedges; the robin threw a 
livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain; and the 
lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, 
towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth tor- 
rents of melody. As I watched the little songster, mount- 
ing up higher and higher until his body was a mere speck on 
the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with 
his music, it called to mind Shakespeare's exquisite little song 
in Cymheline: 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
And Phoebus 'gins arise. 

His steeds to water at those springs. 
On chaliced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With everything that pretty bin,' 

My lady sweet arise! 

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground; 
everything is associated with the idea of Shakespeare. Every 

I an obsolete form from be. 



94 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boy- 
hood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic 
life and manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild 
superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft into his 
dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a popular 
amusement in winter evenings " to sit round the fire and tell 
merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, 
giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and 
friars." ^ 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, 
which made a variety of the most fancy doublings and wind- 
ings through a wide and fertile valley; sometimes glittering 
from among willows which fringed its borders, sometimes 
disappearing among groves or beneath green banks, and 
sometimes rambling out into full view, and making an azure 
sweep round a slope of meadow land. This beautiful bosom 
of country is called the Vale of the Eed Horse. A distant 
line of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst 
all the soft intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained 
in the silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned 
off into a footpath which led along the borders of fields and 
under hedgerows to a private gate of the park; there was a 
stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian, there being 
a public right of way through the grounds. I delight in these 
hospitable estates, in which every one has a kind of property 
— at least as far as the footpath is concerned. It in some 
measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and what is more to 
the better lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks and pleas- 

' Scot, in his Biscoverie of Witchcraft, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin- 
enumerates a host of these fireside fancies. good-fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the 
"And they have so fraid us with bull- man in the oke, the hell-waine, the fler- 
beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hob- 
hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, goblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such 
kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, other bugs, that we were afraid of our own 
dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, shadowes."— Irving's Note. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 95 

ure grounds thrown open for his recreation. He breathes 
the pure air as freely and lolls as luxuriously under the shade 
as the lord of the soil ; and if he has not the privilege of call- 
ing all that he sees his own, he has not at the same time the 
trouble of paying for it and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among the noble avenues of oaks and 
elms whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The 
wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks 
cawed from their hereditary nests in the treetops. The eye 
ranged through a long lessening vista, with nothing to inter- 
rupt the view but a distant statue and a vagrant deer stalk- 
ing like a shadow across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues that has 
the effect of Gothic architecture,^ not merely from the pre- 
tended similarity ot form, but from their bearing the evidence 
of long duration, and of having had their origin in a period 
of time with which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. 
They betoken also the long settled dignity and proudly con- 
centrated independence of an ancient family; and I have 
heard a worthy but aristocratic old family observe, when 
speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that 
money could do much with stone and mortar, but, thank 
Heaven, there was no such thing as suddenly building up an 
avenue of oaks. 

It waB from wandering in early life among this rich scenery 
and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of 
Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that 
some of Shakespeare's commentators have supposed he de- 
rived his noble forest meditations of Jaques and the enchant- 
ing woodland pictures in As You Like It.^ It is in lonely 

I Irving is thinking of a great Gothic in the Forest of Arden, yet in this play, as 

church, like Westminster Abbey, of which in others, Shakespeare makes no effort to 

the characteristic is the lofty columns from reproduce the actual characteristics of his 

which spring the vaults supporting the original, but describes it as though it were 

roof. the England of his own day. 

* Although the scene is supposed to lie 



96 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

wanderings through such scenes that the mind drinks deep 
but quiet draughts of inspiration and becomes intensely sen- 
sible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The imagination 
kindles into reverie and rapture, vague but exquisite images 
and ideas keep breaking upon it; and we revel in a mute and 
almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in some 
such mood, and perhaps under one of those very trees before 
me which threw their broad shades over the grassy banks and 
quivering waters of the Avon, that the poet's fancy may have 
sallied forth into that little song which breathes the very soul 
of a rural voluptuary : 

Under the greenwood tree, 
Who loves to lie with me. 
And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note. 
Come hither, come hither, come hither? 

Here shall he see 

No enemy. 
But winter and rough weather.' 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large build- 
ing of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic st3'le of 
Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of 
her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original 
state, and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence 
of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great gate- 
way opens from the park into a kind of courtyard in front of 
the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower- 
beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient barbican, 
being a kind of outpost, and flanked by towers, though evi- 
dently for mere ornament instead of defence. The front of 
the house is completely in the old style, with stone-shafted 
casements, a great bow-window of heavy stone-work, and a 
portal with armorial bearings over it carved in stone. At 

> As You Like It, II, v, 1. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 97 

each corner of the building is an octagon tower surmounted 
by a gilt ball and weathercock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend 
just at the foot of a gently sloping bank which sweeps down 
from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feed- 
ing or reposing upon its borders, and swans were sailing ma- 
jestically upon its bosom. As I contemplated the venerable 
old mansion, I called to mind Falstaif's encomium on Justice 
Shallow's abode, and the affected indifference and real vanity 
of the latter : 

Falstaff. — You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
Shallow. — Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir 
John: — marry, good air.' 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion 
in the days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of stillness and 
solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the court- 
yard was locked ; there was no show of servants bustling about 
the place; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no 
longer harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only 
sign of domestic life that I met with was a white cat stealing 
with wary look and stealthy pace toward the stables, as if on 
some nefarious expedition. I must not omit to mention the 
carcase of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against 
the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that 
lordly abhorrence of poachers and maintain that rigorous ex- 
ercise of territorial power which was so strenuously mani- 
fested in the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found my 
way to a lateral portal which was the everyday entrance to 
the mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old- 
housekeeper, who, with the civility and communicativeness of 
her order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater 

> 2 Hem-y IV-, V, iii, 8. 



98 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

part has undergone alterations and been adapted to modern 
tastes and modes of living. There is a fine old oaken stair- 
case, and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient 
manor-house, still retains much of the appearance it must 
have had in the days of Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched 
and lofty, and at one end is a gallery in which stands an or- 
gan. The weapons and trophies of the chase, which formerly 
adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made way for 
family portraits. There is a wide, hospitable fireplace, cal- 
culated for an ample, old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the 
rallying-place of winter festivity. On the opposite side of 
the hall is the huge Gothic bow-window with stone shafts, 
which looks out upon the courtyard. Here are emblazoned 
in stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for 
many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted 
to observe in the quarterings the three white luces by which 
the character of Sir Thomas was first identified with that of 
Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of 
the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the Justice is in a rage 
with Falstaff for having "beaten his men, killed his deer, 
and broken into his lodge." The poet had, no doubt, the of- 
fences of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and 
we may suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of the 
puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous indigna- 
tion of Sir Thomas. 

Shallow. — Sir Hugh, persuade me not : I will make a Star Chamber 
matter of it; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse 
Sir Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. — In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. 

Shallow. — Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 

Slender. — ^Ay, and ratalorum, too, and a gentleman born, master 
parson; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, 
or obligation, Armigero. 

Shallow. — Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hun- 
dred years. 

Slender. — All his successors gone before him have done 't, and all 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 99 

ms ancestors that come after him may; they may give the dozen 
white luces in their coat. . . . 

Shallow. — The council shall hear it; it is a riot. 

Evans. — It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no fear 
of Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear 
of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that. 

Shallow. — Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should 
end it." 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir 
Peter Lely ^ of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the 
time of Charles the Second. The old housekeeper shook her 
head as she pointed to the picture, and informed me that this 
lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away 
a great portion of the family estate, among which was that 
part of the park where Shakespeare and his comrades had 
killed the deer. The lands thus lost had not been entirely 
regained by the family even at the present day. It is but 
justice to this recreant dame to confess that she had a surpass- 
ingly fine hand and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a great 
painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir 
Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in the 
latter part of Shakespeare's lifetime. I at first thought that 
it was the vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper as- 
sured me that it was his son, the only likeness extant of the 
former being an effigy upon his tomb in the church of the 
neighboring hamlet of Charlecote," The picture gives a lively 

1 From the beginning of The Merry " Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife 
Wives of Windsor. of Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlecot in ye 

2 The Court painter of Charles the Sec- county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and 
ond who painted the great beauties of the heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye 
day. county of Worcester Esquire who departed 

^ This effigy is in white marble, and rep- out of this wretched world to her heavenly 

resents the knight in complete armor. kingdom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare 

Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on of our Lord God 1595 and of her age 60 

her tomb is the following inscription, and three. All the time of her lyfe a true 

which, if really composed by her husband, and f aythf nl servant of her good God, 

places him quite above the intellectual never detected of any cryme or vice. In 

level of Master Shallow : religion most sounde, in love to her hus- 



100 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

idea of the costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas 
is dressed in ruff and doublet, white shoes with roses in them, 
and has a peaked yellow, or as Master Slender would say, " a 
cane-colored beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side 
of the picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the chil- 
dren have a most venerable stiffness and formality of dress. 
Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family group ; a hawk 
is seated on his perch in the foreground, and one of the chil- 
dren holds a bow — all intimating the knight's skill in hunt- 
ing, hawking, and archery, so indispensable to an accom- 
plished gentleman in those days.^ 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall 
had disappeared; for I had hoped to meet with the stately 
elbow-chair of carved oak in which the country squire of 
former days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his 
rural domains, and in which it might be presumed the re- 
doubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state when the 
recreant Shakespeare was brought before him. As I like to 
deck out pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased myself 
with the idea that this very hall had been the scene of the 
unlucky bard's examination on the morning after his cap- 
tivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate 

band most faythful and true. In friend- gentleman of his time, observes : " His 
ship most constant ; to what in trust was housekeeping is seen much in the different 
committed unto her most secret. In wis- families of dogs and serving-men attend- 
domexcelling. In governing of herhouse, ant on their kennels ; and the deepness of 
bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that their throats is the depth of his liscourse. 
did converse with her moste rare and sin- A hawk he esteems the true burden of no- 
gular. A great maintayner of hospitality. bility, and is exceedingly ambitions to 
Greatly esteemed of her betters ; misliked seem delighted with the sport, and have 
of none unless of the envyous. When all bis fist gloved with his jesses." And Gil- 
is spoken that can be saide a woman so ?•«. in his description of a Mr. Hastings, 
garnished with virtue as not to be bettered remarks ; " He kept all sorts of hounds 
and hardly to be equalled by any. Asshee that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and bad- 
lived most virtuously so shee died most ger ; and had hawks of all Kinds, both 
Godly. Set downe by him yt best did long and short winged. His great hall 
knowe what hath byn written to be true. was commonly strewed with marrow- 
Thomas Lucye." bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, 
— Irving's Note. spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, 
paved with brick, lay some of the choicest 
* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country terriers, hounds, and spaniels."— Irving. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 101 

surrounded by his body-guard of butler, pages, and blue- 
coated serving-men, with their badges; while the luckless cul- 
prit was brought in, forlorn and chopfallen, in the custody 
of gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whippers-ih, and followed by 
a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright faces of 
curious housemaids peeping from the half-opened doors, while 
from the gallery the fair daughters of the knight leaned 
gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful prisoner with that 
pity " that dwells in womanhood." Who would have thought 
that this poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority 
of a country squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to 
become the delight of princes, the theme of all tongues and 
ages, the dictator to the human mind, and was to confer im- 
mortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, 
and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the 
justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a 
last year's pippin " of his own grafting, with a " dish of cara- 
ways " ; ^ but I had already spent so much of the day in ray 
ramblings that I was obliged to give up any further investi- 
gations. When about to take my leave, I was gratified by 
the civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler that I would 
take some refreshment — an instance of good old hospitality 
which, I grieve to say, we castle-hunters seldom meet with in 
modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the pres- 
ent representative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors; 
for Shakespeare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shal- 
low importunate in this respect, as witness his pressing in- 
stances to Falstaff. 

" By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night. ... I 
will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be 
admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused. 
. . . Some pigeans, Davy; a couple of short-legged hens; a joint 
of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William Cook." 

I The allusions are to the last act of Z Henry IV. 



102 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind 
had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes 
and characters connected with it that I seemed to be actually 
living among them. Everything brought them as it were be- 
fore my eyes; and as the door of the dining-room opened, 
I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence 
quavering forth his favorite ditty : 

'T is merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry Shrove-tide! 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the sin- 
gular gift of the poet; to be able thus to spread the magic of 
his mind over the very face of nature, to give to things and 
places a charm and character not their own, and to turn this 
" working-day world " ^ into a perfect fairy-land. He is in- 
deed the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the 
senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the 
wizard influence of Shakespeare I had been walking all day 
in a complete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through 
the prism of poetry which tinged every object with the hues 
of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied beings, 
with mere airy nothings conjured up by poetic power, yet 
which to me had all the charm of reality. I had heard Jaques 
soliloquize beneath his oak, had beheld the fair Eosalind and 
her companion adventuring through the woodlands, and above 
all had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack Fal- 
staff and his contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow 
down to the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. 
Ten thousand honors and blessings on the bard who has thus 
gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illusions, who 
has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures in my checkered 
path, and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely hour with all 
the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life ! 

1 As You Like It, I, iii, 12. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 103 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I 
paused to contemplate the distant church in which the poet 
lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction which 
has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed 
vaults. What honor could his name have derived from being 
mingled in dusty companionship with the epitaphs and es- 
cutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude ? What 
would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey ^ have been, 
compared with this reverend pile which seems to stand in 
beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum ! The solicitude 
about the grave may be but the offspring of an overwrought 
sensibility; but human nature is made up of foibles and 
prejudices, and its best and tenderest affections are mingled 
with these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown 
about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly 
favor, will find after all that there is no love, no admiration, 
no applause so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in 
his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in 
peace and honor among his kindred and his early friends. 
And when the weary heart and failing head begin to warn 
him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly 
as does the infant to the mother's arms, to sink to sleep in 
the bosom of the scene of his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard 
when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he 
cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have 
foreseen that before many years he should return to it cov- 
ered with renown; that his name should become the boast 
and glory of his native place; that his ashe_s should be re- 
ligiously guarded as its most precious treasure; and that its 
lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful con- 
templation, should one day become the beacon, towering 
amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of 
every nation to his tomb ! 

» See p. 12. 



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